for color

 

 

 

   White.

   Black.

   Both laughable

   distinctions, enforced

   by rules

   recognized for plunder.

   What mighty king

   stands guard with  

   breastplate tall

   and breviary?

   What dire-wolf

   discerns the

   framing of

   forgiveness,

   gardens full?

 

 

   Perhaps the thin

   nymphs of Hesperides

   golden dogma, a

   Mormans fruit of

   divine revelation,

   I hesitate to pick.

   Or any connective

   tissue,

   Like Roscoe Holcomb's

   mountain links to

   Delta, black man blues.

   Or dancing in dark

   hallways to Goodman,

   or seeing pictures of

   George Shering but

   turning your head

   quickly and pretending

   he could see flowers,

   lifted skirts or the night.

 

 

   Post-tramatic are  my roses,

   showy but shutting down;

   color verboten of sun.

   Even from my porch their

   enamel pops old cork

   bodies to the top of dew,

   or lay down in the slow

   sacrifice to shame.                         

 

 

           hder

Reviews

[Emily B]

it has a whisper of the blues, chicago style, i think

loved the rhythm