these are some ramblings from the poet francine j. harris from the city of detroit. they are not necessarily about detroit. in fact. they could generally be written from anywhere. but...they're not and that's the point.
you can imagine that around the things you find beautiful, you can build a frame. and dance them off to the world. and everyone will lift their glasses and touch our common sky with their eyelashes. you can imagine that the perimeter of shadows you know will edge into the skin of others. that their pores, like your pores, want not only to be filled with a corona of light, but that you can argue its radiance, and relay the logic of its beauty.
but it's not true.
beauty is loneliness, too. the damp dusk of a lover's fingertip is smattered with a privatized soil. small moments bring some to revel in the deep fragrance of sweet mud. others only see the wet dirt. the mess. the inconvenience, the primitive grit. beauty is the taste bud lingering in the section of your mouth that loves the bitter, the sour, the sweet, yes, but also the simple bass note of matter. personal particles which you sip and swirl around your own tongue, may only ever be yours.
my mud of life, god your pungent kick. marry me, and lay down here in this dirt. roll me blackened and stuck together with brick vine and sea-bottom colored bark. like you. you, the earth.