|
In this town with three churches
the fresh-scrubbed
faces of men
with work-hard hands, their wives
the same, bow for need & show
a hope
that humility is not its own reward
hope enough to make it grow
&
prayers & prayers
& hands & holes
12 million wings buzzing
a paper brogue, black out
the
sun— Maya
shivers the
river, his spittle
cud the tar
pitch world.
Widening chevron
feed this world
from out yr razor
beak or mincing
locust jaws. |