If every event on the calendar
went sim-saima-sima-lo with dead leaves

a black boy and a black girl
snaking their thighs
towards dawn
with or without moonlight
falling on the roof of the world
to the sound of the Vulture Dance
which unsheathes its
yard and a half
against the daughter
of Mrs. Average and sheeke shacke sheekee shackee
repushing repushing and repushing
until . . . then we would have reason enough
to examine things
from the upside-down angle
of the bat
suspended from the open sky of the universe
loaded with days including also
May Day
all around the world
with parades
placard bearers
words demonstrating
words decompostoning
but unheard unhearthed unbludgeoned
with the pride
of so many workers
who in spite of being such
don’t all eat bread
nor sweat from their brow
nor will even have a wage increase
nor far less new promotions
to the old profession of earning money
within the marches and protests
by ma-yaya lasike ma-yaya-o . . .
with the feet of the policemen
dancing against their will: sim-saima-sima-lo
then i would dance
in the centre of the May-wheel
with my dance making rain
and my solitude
would be one with the spring rains
finally understood among the greenery
comprehending the voice of the people
— which is the voice of God —
shouting from the top of the Maypole
ma-yaya lasike ma-yaya-ooo . . .

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