Defeated by what scars mar truly,
Each paragraphs lies like sated kindergarteners in the
Tall grasses,
Windswept from a honeymoon of fieldtrips,
Already like cut letters opened and scattered to the
Enjambments of their society:
What are they going to be now, who are they
Going to know, with the sky that is the batter raining down
Then the things they breath, the snakes of knowledge
Coiling around the clutches of sunny stones in the grass,
Using their ripple-bellies to kneed closer,
Curling around the wrists of the prettiest girls,
Forked tongues stealing away the hopes of the follow
Youth who shall never find a wife
Or home- The boy sleeping there in the field without a
Car or a way to mow the yard; but following through the weeping
Strands, the poisonous kinds of flowers with the equanimity
Of a scientist of dying children- like suburban gossip;
And he will leave you there in his house alone, perceiving
Indistinguishable women floating long-legged from the lips
Of his folded airplanes; and you might see him there stretched
Out exhausted on the green carpet, but his loosed thoughts
Are skipping like amused seashells far across
the abutments of so many
Unheard of canals, finally to unrefined rest where so many black men
Are cutting sugarcane, teaching him their ancestral folklore,
And pressing cheap rum to his lips like a reddish song.
Like A Reddish Song
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