When it’s her time./ when the first check is here&deposited in savings,/ When it’s her time./ when the pin drops through the camera lens,/ When it’s her time./ when it’s jockey in the mail,/ When it’s her time./ when I just want to listen to Nina Simone./ When It Is Her Time.
when it’s an ice storm,/ no power for longer than you can stand,/ when the verse is a nest, it must be/ to confess./ when i got a line out;/ bloodsworth and Proserpina./
It is her time./ It is her time./ It is her time.
When it’s a deep pocket and my love keeping you warm, [i hope];
when the music of the land is
the remaining wax, warmed
the velvety petals by my window.
when you are reminded of
the mint cuddle blanket,
—the warm maple syrup sound of
her voice has gotten you through oh-so much.
when you’re on call and the demo’s done;
coffee and poetry on the deck in the morning;
when the sun lights your courage and you say hello;
when time is a river, a river moving through you–
ajoy–when the door is ajar…
When you reeled in the support you have
craved for longer than was necessary,
when you will rest.
When you will tender your
skin, your bones, your body whole with warm
water, scrubs and salt and lotions, with musics
a pair of blue-covered books (a song and a whale of a tale)
the virginal moon, snow-full
and yes, it is snowing again.
and yes, i was warned about today’s wrinkles
and yet, the calendar insists–come to meet
and I must spur on.
If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it.
Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon
–applause -plause, live for thee applause -plause, live for thee … when you’re up to quarantingz in WWC and spring sprungs and RAM is nigh and climbing up the mountaintop is the only–
when the soup is *on*, isn’t it. how do you kill a spider, and está une serpente? who was that downstairs? it was me. now reverse it.
n i’ll dogwalk u hoes. tfw u got yr bag w/ a tape
of a touch of mink and ur mental mines’ Mitchumy––dread-looming knuckles and a true-footed saxophone––drop your shades, O &
that bottle hit different when i bust it across your head . . .
for when: Do *anything* for clout? She gone. It’s like trying to catch a freight train with a butterfly net.
bardic bullion 