For Bill Hawkins, a Black Militant

Night, I know you are powerful and artistic

in your misspellings.

How distinctively I sense your brooding,

feel your warm breath against my face,

hear your laughter—not cruel only amused

and arrogant: young—

insisting on my guilt.

Night, let me be part of you

but in my own dark way.

Structure

9 lines · 9 stanzas