Oct 312013
 
We grow the grass that Whitman trimmed and trod,
Under pilgrim boot and barefoot Indian, walkers for war and God,
We seethed and twined our threads like a wave of the woven sea:
Before the first man gave cry or chant before firelit faces of his camp
We, beneath all the innumerable stories gathered there,
Beneath word and deed and all, threaded buried breast and bone
And sewed ourselves into the dirt that majesty might grow.
That majesty might grow and never look askance,
Our bodies with the bodies of those gone before have danced--
Glittering naked selves, red with life, tongues churned in trance,
We mass among the buried roots that history might ascend;
That one good deed might come and rise above the rest
And destiny be made manifest and not remain an empty dream,
We seethe and twine our threads like waves of the woven sea.

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