No man can fleet-foot the catch of time:
There’s a hand that reaches out, finger-twine
Of hands once bound in the threshing line,
Hands that recall a plantation rhyme.
’Tis a hand loosed from the manacled crowd;
’Scaped from that caustic whipping sound.
Cold hard blisters, callous-proud,
Forensic finger of this reeky night, this obsidian shroud.
A hand gloved in the name of foreign folk
Seeking out the master’s cloak.
’Tis a Frankenstein that knows not to stroke;
But only, in finding, to curl fingers and choke.