Vintage by Kofi Antwi
I’m across the street black. vintage as suede boots — satin sheets and sneers of French kisses. slumber awakens and a harvest of holy hymns proceeds. but
orange can’t fathom what black is, but I’m rooting for everyone
black to appraise their skin, the dystopian perpetuates, rivers have morphed the body. diplomacy has turned mind and matter to pieces of fragments, but I’m blacker than black or blue phi. kids are dancing and shuffling but I don’t have a buck to give no more or less I give what has been taken, next stop two fif, and
everything is depleted.