Septet
I.
aint nothing but a southern negro son,
a god-made aria, married to my art.
desperately searching out a place to plant
a sapling of sound and breath. looking for
a brief pause just to sing...you know? that pause
to collect my tunes and bury them, spread
my own song across a thirsty earth-scape.
®hymku
parted thighs singing ancient songs; we will sail down mornings.
©2011 Wordchestral Publishing
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