every wooden man
has a galley full of slaves
rowing to the shores of their
but not before their present bondage.
and here I spill out the sides
from the wicked man's perch
the negro spirituals condemning
him with their guttural harmony
flavored by the gasp of a woman
dead in child birth.
I am a wooden man
looking at Canaan on the horizon
propelled by my shackled brothers
and hatred of my port and bow
but a believer in their freedom
the death of my way of living
and the resurrection of other dead.