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Rhoda Clark
No use looking now
I'm gone
to BEING
coverings left
in heaps on the floor/sandals
shot like stars across the room
no use looking there
mostly it was lies/no matter now
yesterday's time falls heavy at my feet
poised uncovered trembling
at the peak of sharper pyramids than these
invisible without my time
IS IN BEING ENOUGH
not now digging relics
in a future blasted out of infinite
the moment winged
Inside a pyramid, its reason:
A former king parched like a leaf
And now impervious to grief,
Bacilli, and a shift of season.
Dust of a million builders’ bones
Informs the wind with grit, lingers,
Then scrapes with unbelieving fingers
Familiar blocks of hand-hewn stone.
There are highways in the soul,
Heights like pyramids that rise
Far beyond earth-veiled eyes,
Sweeping through the barless skies
O'er the line where daylight dies —
There are highways in the soul!
(Philadelphia, Pa.)
South Street is not beautiful,
But the songs of people there
Hold the beauty of the jungle,
And the fervidness of prayer.
South Street has no mansions,
But the hands of South Street men
Built pyramids along the Nile
That Time has failed to rend.
South Street is America,
Breast of the foster mother
Where a thousand ill-kept children
Vie for suck, with one another.