My Poetry Has Become The Way Of

Africa? A Book One Thumbs Listlessly, Till Slumber Comes.

I Have A Rendezvous With Life.

Yet Do I Marvel At This Curious Thing:/ To Make A Poet Black, And Bid Him Sing!

Give But A Grain Of The Heart's Rich Seed, Confine Some Under Cover, And When Love Goes, Bid Him God-speed. And Find Another Lover.

Lord, Forgive Me If My Need Sometimes Shapes A Human Creed.