--for Rich Owens
For which I will have been writing
A song to kill the message
That poetry only play
Dead here is another disaster
We have recourse to worlds
Multiple of hair
Of milk that won’t arrive
There is a breath that won’t arrive
There is action there is spring
It has passed us by again
Like some parental spirit
To make words tolerable
If we sit on the barricades long enough
Maybe someone will have met us there
If I squat in this book maybe it will rise
More precious than ideas of flesh
Gathering arms against those winters past
Fucked up like little songs we can’t
Sing this world is gone
Into distant melody verdant where
You are going only children
In the future will know
Starving in this happy world
Unprepared to die
Live out this lie of song.
