* * *

(* * *)

Let us think death into the centre of life.

And let’s sing loud: no fragile body buried

under the law of the knife! Where is the honest,

decent citizen who accepts the lie

at the price – at the cost! – of his right, at the breast

of the wet-nurse, to rough milk? Fools, my estranged

brother, have spoken ways of peace and harvest.

Not a word have they promised. I hear only the moan

in the common wind. We will know the joy of a body

that is free, marching to the beat of clear,

collective rhythms. The fight: flesh with no bones

upon it, deep in the middle of the night.

I open the satchel: I gather instants with no land-bridge,

no scorpions. I learn the fire in the breast.