thinking of Hughes's Harlem
I believe this life is capable
of its own explosion
on the shadow side of sunset
a restless ache settles in
deeper than marrow or bone
something gnawing
a thing unknown
never the jester
I please this court
with my exploratory surgery
the meat did rot
that raisin, not even a spot
the forked road did rise
and I picked the smoother one
Hughes or Frost
landscaped differently
same linear trajectory
if I’m over halfway there
do I stop or travel on
poet under construction 