In hospital nights

random shrieks and moans may break

the odd silence. I

am shattered, and healed,

returned to holy selfhood

by being there, my

body seeking truth

in deeper silences be-

yond the pain and dread.

The night sky lit o-

ver the Mojave, and the books—

bright hard childhood friends.

Air conditioning

and white supremacy, mother’s

popular bridge games.

My father’s garden,

azalias hanging in wind-

less heat. He loved our

black maid. Small, patient.

We’d drive her home past the tracks,

canals with catfish.

I have made myself

from time to time an old fool

caught in the lucid

gaze of a shop girl.

No reason beyond beauty‘s

high color on cold days.

But today with fresh

snow on the ground, solitude

called for my green fleece

and new rose hoodie.

The least personal,

elemental, ecstatic

colors save the day.

No. I came here by

shipwreck, poverty, and good

luck. Motley my mot.