Troy Davis

The sun on the horizon
bodes dawn, unknown by your body
led away, labelled dead
and walking at once, a book
open in their hands, of psalms
read like love poems on the hour
of your death—
they killed you a dime's death
with no miracle, no book
to save your history.
After those as strong as you
in space where hounds
howl at the heel, and who
were captured, lamps raised
to pin them in darkness
like van-lit deer,
the pain of jubilating
black voices sang, jazz,
the drugged corner of your eyes
exuding what some
came to see, the crawl
of latex on your rubber tree,
on the dark of your arm.
A brutal dragging of Georgia's
red meat across the dirt.
At this time of books
and scientific acumen it remains
unknown why you must die,
on the the brink of a twilight
of latent reason and love.