“The stark, unutterable pity,
To be dead, and never again behold my city.”
—James Weldon Johnson, from “My City”
What if this is how it’s going to be—
atmospheric screen frozen,
no rebooting. Only one season left,
all natural warmth from the sun
a myth
our ancestors handed us
on a microwavable platter. The raw
movement dies from lack
of passion.
No more fire
in the belly, no more burning
desire to create friction—
to get next to you. This table wobbles.
That type set to tell on those paintings
has shrunk
to a grunt. I’ve lost
the secret code to maintain
an allusion. This uncoordination
has nothing to do with my left hand.
* James Weldon Johnson, from The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 
But you are fantastic! You play with words and rhythm with great ease (it seems!), creating fantastic daliesque thought forms floating around like so much down from ruptured quilt.
…This uncoordination
has nothing to do with my left hand.
You’re fantastic.
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Thank you so much. I appreciate your words. I don’t know about ease–sometimes easier than others.
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