Incubus
A raw communion wafer in my hand
A hard wind melting the castles of sand
There is an anger roaring through us
A surf thrashing on the rocky shore
An inebriated old incubus
Its wist binds our Samson to the floor
It butters the children dry bread
Broke hole in my mother's shoes
Turn blue, silky skies to lead
And print morning and evening news
I saw the pale infection
Coiled like a whip on a Great House floor
The master of the plantation
The tears of children on a foreign shore.
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