From the verses of Shakespeare to the violence of Football, a soft hand on the nape of my neck to a rim's hard rattle after a dunk, the mute of Miles to the rhymes of Rakim, Hershey's chocolate to a garlic peppered, cedar-planked salmon, Joel Dias-Porter's thoughts scatter like grains of black sand across a wind-blown beach.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
On the beach- this book of nature poems opens me.
Above the red lips below the black brows- the green of her eyes.
On this brick wall, a dead kid's name- still dripping.