I get sad when I write; the pen tears up
The page, like a stage for strict tap dancers
Sweating across the boards, their black ears up
With airs down like at-rest necromancers:
The movement is cursive, each heel kicks dust
And traces a line across the surface
Of that ground that’s the page. I really must
Stop trying to mean it in this first age:
That is, the time after freedom. Face-time
When my inner maroon seizes outer
Space for itself – technically, a race crime
But a human right. Hi haters, doubters!
I pour out libation in these stanzas
And join the deep ranks of negromancers.