He hung. no ballet
on a turntable. he hung.
woodcut shrug of the eyes.
the arms: limp sleeves.
no marionette twitch
where the string of nerve
remembered an impulse.
he hung. the block rubbled
the block. an aerial
photograph of sound
it went split. fewer hues
of wind where he hung.
feet in Sunday shoes
number one. number two
Sunday shoes tapping
two-tone the concrete walk.
"whuddnt nobody sayin
nuttin bout bein dead
just dat he hung." "gotch
you a look seen you
his face catch you dat
coal of sufferin?"