black poetry

give me
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
as evening falls
tripping up, falling down
i gazed upon the glorious sky
afraid no more, i say
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
her face is fair and smooth and fine
perhaps it is no matter that you died
over the rooftops race the shadows of clouds
when a deed is done for freedom
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
roses and gold