Exiled From Mountains A Country Boy Laments The Question, Harlem, Ny 1982 Poem by Warren Falcon

I am sick of self and thinking about it.

Let the water drip.
Let the starlight climb in and out the window
every thirty seconds changing from red to green.

The street has its traffic; let it.
The dirty river runs pulling more and more
away from smoking banks with its arm; let it.

Whatever greens and shines when wet,
whatever greens and waves in wind,
whatever greens and turns toward light;
let it.

Let it come down; the light.
Let it come down; the stars.
Let its cold mouth gape; the moon.
Let its angles fall smoothly to its side; the night.
Let its red run down the wall; the darkness.

It is a cold answer.
It is a cold question.
Let it grow dumber than already it is.