Epode# 8 Poem by robert dickerson

Wake up man
sunrise whitens your chapel walls and falls

on the snapbeans in the prison garden:
beans in neat rows

purple to pale
yellow to petal

pink to blue
sonorities.

Don't cry, you
are not the first to ever swing.

Besides, breakfast is here-last bites.
It's what you wanted

on such a lovely
day for a hanging morning:

wings. grits and
groats;

sausages hung up in smoke
like bad jokes;

hake chilled
with artichokes;

Figs under sprigs
of fresh mallows;

It's a crime,
man,

you still feel the burn from.
Bad dog dog, It was you-

it was that moth you threw
into the neb-