i. Praise Song for N***a
Ghost still pace Georgia, hungry
for babies, for husbands, for something

                        to un-open the back.

We know what music accompanies

the mob, the robe, the rope the pickup or the horse, the blade
across our dark root, the fire, the star spinning from a tree branch
    was always

Nigger—Black Nigger—Nigger
People on couch
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