the black boys
at the edge of the plantation, bleeding
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
compose herself into sixth notes, just
for them. luckily the african lady next to
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