LEAFLET

The silent rage scribbles on the inward wall.

Fruit trees in bloom, the cuckoo calls out.

This is spring’s narcosis. But the silent rage

paints its slogans backwards in garages.

We see all and nothing, but straight as periscopes

handled by the underworld’s timid crew.

It’s the war of minutes. The broiling sun

stands over the hospital, suffering’s parking lot.

We the living nails hammered down in society!

One day we’ll come loose from everything.

We’ll feel death’s air under our wings

and be milder and wilder than we are here.