Black bird burnt with the brim of the sun
Black milk spilt, but a man with a hat
is at it with his drink & paintbrush —
 
It's his sister's hair he is painting, he insists,
or a black German forest hiding snow,
or of an age long ago,
 
Black-haired Margarita reading Sita
on a ship in the Indian Ocean, on a Sunday,
Father Domingo lingered in her thoughts.
 
Black bird falling, fire-feathers falling black snow,
a breath smoking ash the powder tasted
black milk on the ground.
 
Black wings — inking its way on the deck.
Cigarette on her mouth,
ghost forcing himself out from the pipe-lamp                      
 
Black blood of a Spanish soldier      
War was a Eucharist for black wine
to turn black milk,
 
The sour came from the sweat of
black-veiled mothers weeping
& from shopkeepers wiping
 
Their windows, these droplets from black soot.
Children grimed in black faces   
spared from drinking black milk yet        
 
Man with the sun above his head
is at it with his drink,
black milk —
 
He drinks & he drinks
from the black of dawn to the back at night        
his paintbrush waiting for
 
Black oil paint to fall on blank canvas      
& a black bird shadows above
black-haired Margarita.