your head points west, to the coast.

i wonder what that means -

you with your many-and-no religions

i try to think in significance, but i can't.

you'd probably laugh in my face and say,

what bull, stop trying to do this

or your dramatic self would stay quiet, not saying a word,

making me squirm.

except i'd never squirm and you know that,

so you'll just look at me.

which would likely make me squirm, when you'd looked long enough,

neat mustache smiling.

i remember your face best. and every movement of it.

of all the dead people i know, you must be the least dead.

and i can even see the eternal roses in your cheeks.

still blooming in your beautiful skin, still blooming;

it's halloween soon. so un-african but so you.

i have a far-flung memory of flying earrings

and blood on our dance floor;

i know you remember.

we all do.

so.

for goodness' sake, don't come visiting.

especially your sister.

or me, or me.

i mean it.

seasofme102015