If poetry is not bread
to fortify the righteous
is it because we miss
in it the savor of contest
the whisper of blessing
over a martyr’s name
the light of sacral plans
to take the citadel once
and for all, or give it up?
On the original streets
lit by the sun of nineteenth-
century novels the workers
are gathering to march
for their dignity and bread.
The planters did not die
of happiness. Other exhibits
show their meadows
their horses and women
the English sunset in lands never more than a sigh
like a vowel far from home.
We ask too much when of
the little that we have.
In good health fondly yours.
