tell me
or on the moon. is she still black
without it passed to her?
without whiteness to delineate a cage:
this & this & this is you
this & this & are yours
only so big.
with all the moon, is she still--
even if the earth spins faster
and she falls so slow on that no-sky gravity
even with that curved horizon
she stands romantic (have we romanticism?)
rugged uncolonial ego
the i is the self she sighs deep, thinks
sleeps beautiful, ivied as Earth
draws new codes to switch to/from
new slangs and sounds, music and gates to keep,
new heights of conscious. her old generation
sleeps ignorant. we don't say 'black' anymore
they speak low recorded, microphone to mouth
crowd cheers from where sands meet sea
rings a first contact, as prophecy
tracks her cometfall
her splashdown, seed to sea
washed ashore to a wilderness
where the weekend tribal in camouflage & beard
greet & gape
is this not her moment of becoming