Shake Our Hand
On another street tomorrow
we could be whores in this
bodies like tamped-down city wheat—
we could emerge from the manholes
of the dead
singing yes! yes! yes! or whistling
some notional anthem of ourselves.
On city stoops
speaking directly into the sun
we could be a significant failure seen
from a great distance,
we could be instructively morose
about violence: how accurately
it is portrayed in us. Every gentle man
It is not too early for us
to turn our backs on the track, for us
to turn in our turncoats
like fields of weather.
The dark waits on yes, so—so—YES—
there is no secret self—
I follow it everywhere.