it surely is the same wrinkled sky from years ago
when i lived in dense forest towns
when cold winds chafed Iroko bark
prayers chafe fingers.
i smoothed my first grinding stone with rocks
picked from streets maddened from stoning thieves.
i peered down wells
and called to the nameless to find out for myself:
guards of the wide road
where mothers have gone mad
where faint rhymes tuck
poems in vapors,
breastmilk curdles with ghosts,
and from mounds poured for the forgotten,
i walked, anyhow, anyhow myself
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