We have here to speak
of stone benches,
hard and uncomfortable,
mostly antiquarian,
Picture of a black boy drowning
on the seat cushion, Latin prayers
for deliverance, revival.
In the beginning was lake
salt on our skin, wind deep
breathing with us in grass.
Shall I smother
You
While soaring through fields?
You were a card-carrying communist
You had a one-track mind
You had no other ideas
And refused to listen to any other
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That glimmer we make
in the blind slope
scraped from disaster’s
layered muck,