Medgar Evers

The man whose height his fear improved he arranged to fear no further. The raw intoxicated time was time for better birth or a final death

Old styles, old tempos, all the engagement of the day — the sedate, the regulated fray — the antique light, the Moral rose, old gusts, tight whistlings from the past, the mothballs in the Love at last our man forswore

Medgar Evers annoyed confetti and assorted brands of businessmen's eyes

The shows came down: to maxims and surprise
And palsy

Roaring no rapt arise-ye to the dead, he leaned across tomorrow. People said that he was holding clean globes in his hands