Of Thee I Sing

Feet for feeling.
Imagine water reassembled,
Cold prints canvassing the
Pavement like inkblots. What
Do you see? Streets running
Sea to choking sea, every
Valley shall be exalted and
Every mountain and hill made
Into trees of money, every
Sunny shore a pocket of
Gold to line the barrels
Of democratic export.

Hands that sing.
Voices resonate from years
On years of rotted grassroot,
Tangled subterranean poems
In fractured stone and water
That burns and glows. My
Country, it is of thee, sweet
Land of decay, sweet pile
Of desecrated smallpox
Graves, sweet home of
My heart plunged deep
Into the Two-Heart, of
Thee I sing.

Mouths forget.
I rewrite the parameters of
My conscience and white
Out liberally to cope, because
I need to hope. Because I
Feed the sea as well. Because
My feet have trampled the
Holy unknown brother. Because
My hands have sung the
Mother to sleep beneath the
Dew-soaked street, and the
Water, coalesced within
The prints beneath the
Neon light, belongs
To me.

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