in you everything sank

was family—when his mother, from her bed, looked right at me, said, Yes.

That morning the thunder struck while the city slept—so loudly, millions of us woke up together, as if by spell or magic—the fog was so thick, I couldn’t see anything outside my window; there were only the sounds of the pigeons and sparrows chirping, their wings desperately flapping in unison, and, Beloved, it was glorious! I meant to tell you, later that evening, as we sat on a bench in that tulip garden in the Village, that years ago I met a prophet on the corner of 125th and Lenox. Beloved, when he spoke to me, there were chills all over my body. I wanted you to know that it was never about belief for me— only, always about the feeling—the knowing—of what is holy. That morning, I had woken from a dream. We had fled to Brazil to search for heaven. I told you I loved you, but I should have called you Nyamekye—God’s Gift. The tulips were in full bloom. We drank Ethiopian honey wine. Do you remember, even the highway medians were lined with daffodils? The plastic flaps of the warehouse shimmered like curtains laced with silver. The dandelions exploded out of the grass like bombs!

I am going to carry my bed into New York City tonight complete with dangling sheets and ripped blankets; I am going to push it across three dark highways or coast along under 600,000 faint stars. I want to have it with me so I don't have to beg for too much shelter from my weak and exhausted friends. I want to be as close as possible to my pillow in case a dream or a fantasy should pass by. I want to fall asleep on my own fire escape and wake up dazed and hungry to the sound of garbage grinding in the street below and the smell of coffee cooking in the window above.

Would I live my life over again? Make the same unforgiveable mistakes? Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

I go down to the shore in the morning and depending on the hour the waves are rolling in or moving out, and I say, oh, I am miserable, what shall— what should I do? And the sea says in its lovely voice: Excuse me, I have work to do.

But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother. It is a perfect summer evening: the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass. And as he stares into the sky, there are twice as many stars as usual.

I am a good man. The amount of fear I am ok with is insane. I love many people who don't love me. I don't actually know if that is true. This is love. It is a mass of ice melting. I can't hold it and I have nowhere to put it down.

The carnation against the man.

leaving behind the merest trace of stars.