After the President's Speech You Dream of Corpses:
Those bodies that last night
stormed the bosses in your brain
— some picket-line or strike —
and were beaten down
so brutally, batoned
corpses piled the streets,
men and women, naked,
massive, Blakean physiques:
where are they now?
Anonymous,
faceless in the mass
grave your mind's become
at morning after dream.
So you are the mirror
of your times: a century
rots forgotten, storyless
in you. Sepulcher, articulate
and ambulating tomb. Packed
charnel house. Dead to the very eyes.
Where will you be that morning when they rise?
Todd Hearon.
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