Every day came, the char of silence and beauty,
brick foundations of what was here, dirt roads
cut through pines, rivers and the dust of the dead,
bone silt and a song, bird cries, the freight train

through the county, crops and cows, chickens wandering
a patch of yard, wind through sun-silvered leaves,
the clay baked hard, undulating in August, farmers
in a field, weathered wooden sheds, isolated.
Every day came, a hound in the yard.
Call it circumstances, the way we thought things
had to be, rough and polished stones on a creek bank.
We had no choice but to believe, sincere and alone

and the black faces, their eyes lowered
in our homes on Broad Street. We did not sympathize.
It was almost normal. Call it circumstance,
the alarm and nature of sidelong glances,
the way we thought things had to be,
God's will, our history and we wanted it quiet.
It was always dark. You get used to anything, we said
with eyes lowered. It was almost perfect here,

mist and wildflowers, the charred cross
in a field. It was almost normal, a quiet stream
and a gravel road. Every day came.
It was dark and no one could see.