A Southern African-American poet has just published a work of radical literary integration. It storms the last bastion of dead-white-guy literature, the “whites only”
Standing before this stranger, I become the silhouette of a fair-faced man who doesn’t exist; I am a dark spot in the middle of
as june bugs. warm weather phenomena. waiting for us in lime and lemon light, floorboard cracks and burning sidewalk pavement. settling on a noon
1954 Following the doctor’s orders, we moved farther from Los Angeles—escaped the dingy smoke over the harbor, the yellow callouses of smog, the black