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The Hour Before
It’s an hour before, an hour after,
an hour a long time coming.
From the north, from the south,
from the sour grapes in palms
an old man picks the lost raisin
and smiles and smites and squashes
what remains of a little head
known to those around as the genius
inside that which is unknown.
It’s an hour before, an hour after,
an hour a long time coming.
From the instant I met a young
woman on a grain of sand I knew
nothing would come of anything
aside from the over exaggerated
grape in the sun; filtering in both
the good and undetermined sunlight
until all (that is determined) is cast
aside into the dreams that are but words.
For you see, nothing and everything
are found in small raisins with black
women smiling, incessant, conniving.
It’s an hour before, an hour after,
an hour a long time coming.
For it is but the hour that waves wands
in front of moonlight, turning pixie dust
dreams into cold slabs of pavement.
It is but the hour that ticks in minutes
that walks on water, wades in windows,
and blows through the pillaged town
off the coast of Nagasaki:
It’s the hour before the hour,
before the before, and still coming.
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