Death to all heroes
Who breathe the current out as if their own.
We dress them up to dress them down
And explain their loss of breath,
Then hide behind something else that covers the recess
And so forget...
There is always the chance to be the hero --
The tough guy, the agent, the priest.
If a mind is occupied
For a moment more
Than necessary for
Confident comfort,
For normal doubt,
Then one can inhabit the next Godsend,
Can link with the chains,
With metal,
A hero,
Flower that erupts
That power dissipates;
Hours that tick so steady by...
So another contracts the glazed eyes
And sudden impulse fury the role requires and summons.
Such brutal clearing of throats
And chafing of arms.
The heroes are lined up, and proceed blindly
Firmly under hand
And over heads that stare
And stare back.
They are stranded like rooks,
Settling like dust at the depot waiting for the train
To move them farther away and further short.
