i think i love a ghostor a manor a man who may be ghost tomorrowthat is to sayi love he whose skin is worth its weightit is gold. it is black.or maybe his skin is the grim reaper's shadowmaybe i am in love with death's shadowand i just want to love him under the sunsometimes you are a riversometimes they make you a riversometimes they make your blood flow red, like a riverAlton, you are a river nowmaybe now they will call you by namethey will have to call you Mississippi or maybe Atchafalayathey can no longer call you felonyou, river, are mighty and vastthey cannot contain youmaybe you will take rootmaybe you will become a treeand they will eat from youthey've always liked to pick us before we are ripeor leave us, hanginghow much black flesh rots in white bellies, tonight?how much strange fruit rots in white bellies, tonight?have we not been served on silver platters, silver bulletsare they not full yet?is it a god complexthat makes them want to turn us into rivers and trees?is it not the seventh day? will they not take rest?are flowers just the ashes of forgotten gold black people?maybe this is what it means when it was writtenof earth you were made and to it you shall returnwill they turn my lover into a river or tree?will i have to learn how to swim or climb to be near him?if i sit under his shade, is it just the grim reaper following me?i just want to love him under the sun.