For Bill Hawkins, a Black Militant
Night, I know you are powerful and artistic
in your misspellings.
How distinctively I sense your brooding,
feel your warm breath against my face,
hear your laughter—not cruel only amused
and arrogant: young—
insisting on my guilt.
Night, let me be part of you
but in my own dark way.
Notes:
This poem was previously published in Hey Fella Would You Mind Holding This Piano a Moment (Ithaca House, 1974) and In My Own Dark Way (Ithaca House, 1977) and is reprinted here by permission of William J. Harris. It is part of the portfolio “I Hope You Like Being Here with Me: The Work of William J. Harris,” curated by Howard Rambsy II.
Source:
Poetry
(February 2023)
