They hung my black young lover
To a cross roads tree.
Way Down South in Dixie
(Bruised body high in air)
I asked the white Lord Jesus
What was the use of prayer.
Way Down South in Dixie
(Break the heart of me)
Love is a naked shadow
On a gnarled and naked tree.
St. Francis of AssisiProves it, too:Goodness becomes grandeurSurpassing might of kings.Halos of kindnessBrighter shineThan crowns of gold,And brighterThan rich diamondsSparklesThe simple dewOf love.
Has dark moons of wearinessBeneath his eyeswhere the smoldering memoryof slave shipsBlazed to the crack of whipsabout thighsThe negrowith the trumpet at his lipshas a head of vibrant hairtamed down,patent-leathered nowuntil it gleamslike jet-were jet a crownthe musicfrom the trumpet at his lipsis honeymixed with liquid firethe rhythmfrom the trumpet at his lipsis ecstasydistilled from…
Making a songIn stone that sings.In the evening the cityGoes to bedHanging lightsAbove its head.
Life is a broken-winged birdThat cannot fly.Hold fast to dreamsFor when dreams goLife is a barren fieldFrozen with snow.
Found lightBrighter than many ever see.She,Within herself,Found loveliness,Through the soul’s own mastery.And now the world receivesFrom her dower:The message of the strengthOf inner power.
But what would happenIf the last 4 was late?And how would it beIf one 2 was me?Or if the first 4 was youDivided by 2?
