Malcolm X Drive.

The terra cotta scrolls binding all 12 sills above
Malcolm X Drive at Martin Luther King Boulevard;

Seep from an era not ours, bind the blind alleys and the back offices,

The service mews and the fenceboard washyards,

Echoing still with potato-white women,

Cold beef red faced halberd men, Now all

Gone missing, as though a Caucasian Bomb detonated.

The Haarlem ghosts in pegleg Stuyvesant, Van Rensslaer,
Uncles now blade by Frederick Douglass Park and Sojouner Truth Way,
Corner of
All dyed in the blood black blue hotbloods wooly mammoth,

Keening our foolish bodies   ¿our God—
Through the noose of light, but in dark evidence
What quiet sense of sequence
Like Sheherazade.

The cosmic warden who invents
Our Time  over the remains, remains.