there is a place
near the Maryland border
where the rock breaks right through the ground
and the gray hands that pull it from the earth
are the same that lay the foundations
of the little gray houses that line the road
cut to fit without mortar
the granite smoothes its
rough edges to gentle parabolas
under two hundred years of gravity
built before the great depression
before the dust bowl migrants
and mr Jackson defied the supreme court
when black was black
and white was white
before The american dream
gray hands built gray windows for gray faces
to, upturned, catch the sun on a sunny day
and the only dreams
are those that came to tightly closed eyes
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