On the side of the bag of sugar a man smiles
a real man, i suppose, but the image
           does not tell me of his tears nor does
it reflect my own, these streaks of
      little light, little water, little salt
      all pieces coming down on the table
      for us to look at, not be strangers to

        but the side of the bag is all we see,
      the underside remains blind, always,
      our tears are rolled up into sugar
      and placed in the non-movement
      of the little black plastic bags ...

    all i am asking of the man is how can he smile
                                   how can you smile
                                   seemingly eternally
                                   despite these locust-words
                                   which whisper your dreams
                                   into disappearance despite
                                   the fingers which touch
                                   the real side of your face
                                   in search of more sugar ...

i cannot see your face, your face is already
                   in the mud, it is mixed with deep brown
                                    wet and dirty,

                                     it shivers in heat
                                    giving out blood for decades
                                   your poverty lurches in line
                                    in the underbelly of my happiness
                                                      my words only they are my blindness into seeing