A Georgia Song

We swallow the odors of Southern cities, Fatback boiled to submission, Tender evening poignancies of Magnolia and the great green Smell of fresh sweat. In Southern fields, The sound of distant Feet running, or dancing, And the liquid notes of Sorrow songs, Waltzes, screams and French quadrilles float over The loam of Georgia. Sing me to sleep, Savannah. Clocks run down in Tara's halls and dusty Flags droop their unbearable Sadness. Remember our days, Susannah. Oh, the blood-red clay, Wet still with ancient Wrongs, and Abenaa Singing her Creole airs to Macon. We long, dazed, for winter evenings And a whitened moon, And the snap of controllable fires. Cry for our souls, Augusta. We need a wind to strike Sharply, as the thought of love Betrayed can stop the heart. An absence of tactile Romance, no lips offering Succulence, nor eyes Rolling, disconnected from A Sambo face. Dare us new dreams, Columbus. A cool new moon, a Winter's night, calm blood, Sluggish, moving only Out of habit, we need Peace. O Atlanta, O deep, and Once-lost city, Chant for us a new song. A song Of Southern peace.