black poetry

though i am little as all little things
from floor to ceiling
all quiet along the potomac
with the meek, brown eyes
when night drifts along the streets of the city
there is a country full of wine
why then, must we see?
out of the deep and the dark
i am in love with high far-seeing places
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
a storm is riding on the tide
it was a tall young oysterman