45
I drank my poems
from pleated cups
I wiped my mouth
with a white flag
I painted
happy little trees
until I saw the forest
was the issue
our own
blighted forest
is
the issue
now the avenues
are writhing
swelling
through the barricades clearly
something
is very
wrong
&I confess
my confessional poetry
confesses nothing
of interest
to fascists
the avenues are
writhing and breaking
the margins
of these pages
magma roiling
into the furious night
someone hands me
a sign
I haven't written
& I become we
I take my place
among strangers
in a country
growing stranger still
& we are all
nothing of interest
to fascists
we are all
nothing of interest
to fascists
yet
Vince Corvaia
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