THE TRICKSTER

Chapters of my life.
I watch them pass as leaves break
Through the avenues of wind
That wash over the Harlem.

Who are you that have extinguished the light
Of what I have come to seek?
Heat collects on the wasted vines
of the wild grape, which weave

Throughout the hourglass of High Bridge Park,
Binding the days that the Trickster terms night.
Gently the moon sways pink
Over the termless roots that the Coons clutch

In their two-step across the tight ropes of Elm trees.
Down is the new up wherein the Owl is not. Is not

what it seems; Death, your eyelids do not phase me.