In Light of Faulkner (1999)

the south was a mule
a mulatto mixture in time
and brown earth
bound together by shackles
shackles that separated
the history from the overseer

I saw those lost souls
in the light of my night
tilling the soil
brown and hard
their spirits worn
their bodies torn

worn as if the dust of the Mississippi
had risen then settled
softly on their bones
gently on my clothes
burrowing beneath my fingernails
scratching at the past
running down endless streets
where corners cease
and straight is the walk
the run into the past
as if I could get closer
to the Christmas I already am.