The Curiosities

Amaud Jamaul Johnson

The year, this distance—
brightly his face hums
                  and ticks like a washed

and you can see him now
                   as a co-worker or neighbor

or someone with whom you
are willing to dissolve an empty
                   hour on a train.
                           O, the winking
unshuttered transient heart.

His bridgework, his thin
                            and yellowed nails.

No.     The trees, whipping black
as the stitched binding of my book.

What mysteries. The Word, pierced

                    and dangling,
                              and dark as amethyst.