Sometimes I fall asleep talking to dead people
beyond the village aloes where sunshine goes to rest—
occasionally I see their bodies cross the lens of my sight
like a moon behind clouds.
And I wait every night to watch them
shuffle to and from the catacombs,
going nowhere in particular but carrying weights
of things they had always refused to moan about. People
who are black and sometimes graze alone out in a world
of hard pavements under the boot.
I am a quota of families with connexions
to the deep of holds. The bloody plank heavy
with sea and body salt. And now I have a mind to draw
a hooded kid with Skittles talking to our ancestors.
What questions and answers would they share
in the standing dusk of a mid-earth afternoon?
After outlining them with a coal pencil,
I draw the colours of their images with flames.

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