Jos

nothing about your cactus is more homely
like the taste of miyan kuka
on a cold evening warmed by wutan murfu.
your sore-pot-holed grounds reminds me of bare
feet suwe games after the August rain.
I still write about you in my becoming
that your breaking will unite us more than
beer parlors.
I still write to your distant cousins
that this jus’ a missive from a black penpal.

Ruddapoet