I am busy spinning men
all night long into
poetry and song
before running into you
in Civics 101.
Lincoln and Johnson
squabble yet again
over number of slaves:
what is the acceptable
threshold.
We roll our eyes
like thunder.
Outside it’s raining
handsome dansomes,
shimmering like Debussy’s
fantasy for piano,
or Mom’s chocolate
silken pies, sent
straight from mists
of heaven.
I’m catching the handsomes
one by one, storing them in
tote bags, before
Johnson can grab
them up and sort them
into laundered sets of
blacks and whites.
I weave their shining faces,
their glimmering eyes into
tufts of cloud–certain
beyond measure–that
winged angels view color as
vibrant breath of evensong.