It permeates the day I walk over the bridge where I often see a single blue heron, not social, standing stone-still stalking Richland Creek fringed with honeysuckle, which reminds me of any Mary Oliver poem, such pastoral pleasures. Fresh honeysuckle at dusk smells like sweet earth, ripe bodies, warm floral notes. I’ve deleted all my social-mediaĪpps, but logged back in later, saw your name repeating as death media.

This stanza will break back inside the form of honeycomb to suck the lyric into compression, reboot restraint, the grief-joy every day when I walk around Sylvan Park near a broken track of burned Black bodies but all I want to write about is Black joy and pleasure pleasure pleasure please … and Black love and Black lives that don’t end with viral death, so I’ve stopped consuming the news. I don’t know the details yet, because I can’t handle the details yet, but I am mourning him still. What name now? What Black litany? What Black elegy is repeated on the news? This cycle: Daunte Wright. Black pleasure at the root instead of viral death. And yet, each day I want to write a poem about pleasure. Black bodies are buried in the stickiness of history every day bodies become the next viral death. I’ve been trying to write a poem about buried Black bodies but all I want to write about is Black joy and my pleasure and Black love and Black lives that don’t end with viral death, so I’ve stopped consuming the news. Yesterday I was smashed with the rush of fresh honeysuckle from the greenway near my house where I walk every day.

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