it was a blistering hot
Sunday morning in mid-July;
the sun throbbed like a headache
in the skull of the sky.
It was bright too, too bright
to look at the barred windows
and sunburnt foreheads
of the towering shadows.
I walked the deserted streets—
every street was a search—
until I heard a gospel choir
singing by a locked church.
The black-robed jubilee
sweltered and swayed
and praised the hour
earth was made.
And I was glad to be outside
on this scathing day
when nothing could stop
my relentless joy.