Sad.  and it comes
tomorrow.  again, grey the streaks
of work
shredding the stone
of the pavement, dissolving
with the idea.
of singular endeavor.  herds, the
herds
of suffering intelligences
bunched,
and out of
hearing.  though the day
come to us,
in waves
sun, air, the beat of the clock
though I stare at the radical world,
wishing it would stand still.
tell me,
and i gain at the telling of the lie and the waking against the heavy breathing of new light, dawn
shattering the naïve cluck of feeling.
what is tomorrow  
that it cannot come today?
-Leroi Jones