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… Continue reading poem: romantics, on the subject of race.
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 