| Through my hair I’m still picking the hulls
|
| Of Europe rained down in scattered handfuls
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| Their seed-meat shriveled to a hollow rattling
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| Striking this already ringing land
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| Resonance choked by pale tendrils shooting off
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| From long lost roots once locked in nature
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| The stubbled senses ingrown now where crusader blades shore
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| And donned them empty-headed beneath the bishop’s cap
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| Shameless scratching at the uncombed earth
|
| Raking the godhead righteous
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| Silence in their wake
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| Silence in straight lines hanging from settler heads
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| Straight silence gathered, braided together, in tails
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| Pony, pig and whip, straight through the rumbling frequencies
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| Of boat bowels and cramped cabins
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| The species underneath each scalp identical after all
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| Night-tone mother and her light newborn
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| Curling each other flat and tight into our tangled sound
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| Muted howl
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| Song of blue flame
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| The brilliant headed silhouettes
|
| Scuffling candles through a nation’s lightless dawn
|
| Kindling fires, mass I must wake to
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| Fire for hot irons, pressing big-house finery wearable
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| Fire for railroad signals, fire in branded skin
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| Skin like bronze hair like lamb wool
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| Divisible under God
|
| Who’s image have we been made in?
|
| Composed for? |
| Orchestrated by?
|
| Our principals eye the concertmaster
|
| Ignore the mumbling audience situating late to their seat
|
| Or standing-room-only stance
|
| In this stately hall built for silence
|
| Bald bulbs blearily focus
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| On our loudness
|
| Writhing out the glowing dark
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| Us, a priceless all toned flood rising
|
| To nourish everybody down to the last
|
| Stray strand
|
| I raise my palm in praise of the symphonic nappyness
|
| Haloing your head
|
| I raise my palm in praise of the God-given nappyness
|
| Haloing your head
|
| I raise my palm in praise of the beautiful nappyness
|
| Haloing your head |