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Blood Aubade, 1969

for Fred Hampton & Mark Clark

Chairman’s head

swims a dream, lover

& unborn son: his crown, wing.

How heavy the body

in sleep/death, drag

to vacant doorway, head

a woolen quill, scrawls black

blood @ the hooves of “men.”

Was it by arm, a fist-

full of hair, yank from the rouge

of the pierced bedroom?

If you know a bullet’s wrath—wood splinter,

plaster   )blast( steel drum tap

dance, box spring (catch all) humming

like a hive of bees—you know

the gauge.

In the fury—shots

first, no questions, pigs

(black & white) squeal

@ 4:30 a.m.  false aubade.

The bed:

soft alter,

no offer

to our gods.

from dying in the scarecrow’s armsFind it in the library

Copyright © Persea Books 2018
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on behalf of Persea Books.

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