tonk and waterfront, black line fade, unbuilt hotel, that union hall

the archive dance of frank gehry crumples to the sky its finger and walking bridge. the mummers disappear my city sounds. dance crumples to the archive sky of fela. the breaking public crush a lot and pilgrimage from greenville (to farmville) to ruleville up the road. let me place Mrs. Hamer, who crush like an architect outside, like broke composition, in parchman. lula and helena strayed to the dock, founded the hiding republic of the westside trucks to come (inland curving bridge, endless waterways) dragged the repeating public folds into the open work we made, unembarrassed with children, out of the expanse’s closed walls from Béère’s market to black saturday, loved by old hands, the breaking law of movement of farms like wagon wheels to christopher street and dim lights on the edge of abeokuta, mississippi, damn. “we may not have a home to call our own but we’re gonna make it”