For Charles Evers
The man whose height his fear improved he
arranged to fear no further. The raw
intoxicated time was time for better birth or
a final death.
Old styles, old tempos, all the engagement of
the day–the sedate, the regulated fray–
the antique light, the Moral rose, old gusts,
tight whistlings from the past, the mothballs
in the Love at last our man forswore.
Medgar Evers annoyed confetti and assorted
brands of businessmen’s eyes.
The shows came down: to maxims and surprise.
Roaring no rapt arise-ye to the dead, he
leaned across tomorrow. People said that
he was holding clean globes in his hands.