poem: romantics, on the subject of race.

the black boys

stand

at the edge of the plantation, bleeding

nervously

into their palms and their psalms.

there is a dreadful sweep of fate around them there is

something righteous, holiness salted in the

plain cloth and the

pink inner smiles. the girl, watching, from the shade

of rome says how wonderful it looks

she will

compose herself into sixth notes, just

for them. luckily the african lady next to

her says

last week you wanted to be jewish

last week you wanted to be a gipsy.

this is immoral, even if you are immortal.

ain’t you listin’ miss? because what I say is the future of the earth

you will reap

what you sow