A.M.E.R.I.C.A.
We are a country of scattered light.
Stormy sooth falls from the
tongues of prophets, and the ships
move out in our mind's waters,
still bringing slaves.
We love the dark gold,
the sun stamping gorged heat
upon this decaying land,
sprawled in feculent air,
among weeds, the white dust,
the paint peeled from skin,
now showing the mottled
epidermis--
Yet, somewhere beyond
the oncoming darkness,
apple-blossoms and a white church
with a portico of delicate columns,
beside a brook;
and growing softly,
lilacs in quiet rain.