& the band paraded out of Congo Square,
marching to the midnight tolls,
the enslaved spirits
free for a time, between fourth and fifth,
between Rampart and the plantation.
The music drifted away, toward heaven,
outstripping the ears tied to the earth in rows.
You swear you heard it,
before the darkness was swept up, the plaza cleared
of all disorder. Be true to that oath. Be worthy
of this country of all your ghosts, shining land that never was,
this country that is leaving you.
& America is dead.
& America has died before, but resurrection
is not what you think. Listen, then,
and say a real goodbye to this dream.