Do I prefer the ink-stained fingers
to a purple-blue heart?
Little will I care to share.
Little less will I care to know.
Behind covered eyes + quickened pulse
my act never brought me close to this
collapsed heart.
Will I never look up to see God’s command?
Forever will I sit head fitted against
American
blue-grass
civil-rights
songs of freedom
only made from a purple-blue bruised
heart.
My hand grows nicer by the night.
Alone, sit, to this detention of heart’s desire.
‘No not yet’ St Andrew whispers.
‘No not yet despite your heart’s desire.
Trust in me, will you fellows see.’
Listens the beggar beyond belief.
