The Workers Love Palestine
The week before the SUN announced hospice
my great-great-great-great-grandchild the harpist announced:
WORKERS OF THE WORLD
JOIN THE STRIKE FOR GUARANTEED LIGHT
The florists union in Caracas and the Algerian weavers presented joint proposals
TOWARD ILLUMINATION THAT MULTIPLIES
Bare hills, lakes of salt sutured dim ruins
shadowless
of shipping yards and empires of memories of sarin
The children's council listened in wreaths of yellow iris,
patterned leaves designating each role
Did you know that within attunement to effort
the end of monument resides?
Then the harpist, my progeny, that fate I had so long evaded—
debt I owe to demographic warfare
and names sliced open, reborn in disfigured repetition—
sang three hundred years of returning
Language is merely the placeholder
for what the LAND has always known
Species being is an observation of MOM (preface)
Absent the wet painting of a razed village (sold)
This land is land
Land is land
LAND LAND
I AM COMING
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