I

Like Florence from your mountain.
Both cast your poets out
for speaking plain.

 

II

You bowl your bombs down aisles
where black folk kneel
to pray for your blacker souls.

 

III

Dog-town children bled
A, B, O, AB as you.
Christ’s blood is not more red.

 

IV

Burning my house to keep
them out, you sowed wind. Hear it blow!
Soon you reap.

from
http://www.storysouth.com/thicket/poems/beecher_five_poems.html