Unbounded

Ralph Monday

They have killed history, all of them. Made of it a

fledgling bird too frightened to fly. But you, yellow

hair, it is there in the cave, in singing meat, the old

old hunger, race’s salvation, that & your eyes like

some penetrating jungle thing in starless bush

where you can sing stars down from the heavens &

know antiquity rattling your bones & cry out O

Lord, this is my history where I become unbounded

from where I began.