Angola On My Mind

Who pulls the plow while the war
goes on, who has the weary strength
to respond to a new front, the shard
unearthed in furrow, peace talk
when scratching a living takes
so much and the stars only tell him
night's coming.

Who tries to recover his wind
with a mindful of mumbles
and chaos at heart, while
the empire falls and the word comes
apart and Superman cries, who
tries to remake himself whole
with what was forgot, on
what ground.

Who bakes bread while the house
shakes, who looks into
the riven earth and has time
to chat or to really ask
how you are, can call back
when he remembers his need but
not his name.

Who looks up from the long march
to the walls of his room
where old newsreels repeat
as the ceiling dissolves in wonder
and can take one more step.

Who sits in the nest
where the limbs divide to go
only away from each other,
how does he sing while the wind
undoes the straw, who tells the baby
caught in breach how the Tao
pauses as it goes on.


17 Jan 76