Some years ago I recall someone paid attention,
like when an invalid half rises, gripping an armchair—
the street captains and priests busy clicking latches.
The homeless withdrew their luxuries. At night,
distant highways whispered long sighs to the world.

How many hours have I spent crushing mangrove leaves,
turning my face to the unbearable grandeur of this heat-soaked
sky? When I spun around, I felt suddenly filled with birds.
Still, I returned, wallowing in the brothels of myself.
I thought of my life, caressing more ruins.

—Major Jackson, Best American Poetry 2011 

(Source: gammasandgerunds)