the soul here leaving here along the way
(homeless-ing) 

is pour’d out in these hole
right here it is
they barely cannot see
way down in where
they trying to believe
this here is what
they always wanna be

it the shadow of ghosts
sow’d deep in they head
words they is
who never said
and this the fat
on what they fed
“where here they fly on chicken wings
and many little other things
like what they dare
and rub like grease
here on their hair”

is the end of nothing
left in here no where
in the pockets of things
they once used to wear
change rolling ’round
on this moist dark ground
dust here in the corners
where they always never found

Copyright © 1996 Asili Ya Nadhiri