Locust, May 4, 1970
The pictures are black and white,
but even though the passions
are embers, I still see them
as green, with black dead eyes.
Some of them have taken off
their masks and turned away,
but the fury in the black faceless
eyes of the others is real, and empty.
There’s a kid off to the side
flipping them the bird; I think
he bought a bullet for his trouble.
The pictures are all black and white,
but even though the passions are
embers, I still see them as red.
Red pools in the parking lot
flowing down to the rain-gutter
over a hundred fucking yards away
from the damn Guard and their rifles.
They are only pictures, only embers.
God help the breeze that fans them.
first published in Wind Row, Spring, 1984.