Bent Tones

There was a dance at the black school.
In the shot houses people were busy. 

A woman washed her boy in a basin, sucking
a cube of ice to get the cool. 

The sun drove a man in the ground like a stake.
Before his short breath climbed the kitchen's steps 

She skipped down the walk in a clean dress.
Bad meat on the counter. In the sky, broken glass. 

When the local hit the trestle everything trembled —
The trees she blew out of, the shiver owl, 

Lights next door — With her fast eye
She could see Floyd Little
Changing his shirt for the umpteenth time. 

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This poem also appears at Modern American Poetry