All around: an envelope unlicked. The roosters,
as one could have expected, are taking out the
twilight. A village assembled to mourn futurity.
Families are gathered, their heads bent against the
weight of the sunset. They are trying to hold it up.
They are failing to hold it up. A father brews a pot
of coffee, a gesture of strength against repetition.
The people form a line and the line is this one. A
break in the chain of the poem that is these people
that is this history: a gesture of strength against
repetition. I am firing blanks walking toward
Wall Street aiming at the idea of it and the lizards
only the gun is jammed and I am
without a gun; there is no revolution.
And from the cold dark a tongue reaches out to lick.
Stampless, the envelope lies on the table. Some shit like that.