The Hangman's Great Hands

And all that is this day. . .

         The boy with cap slung over what had been a face. ..

         Somehow the cop will sleep tonight, will make love to his

         wife…

         Anger won't help. I was born angry. Angry that my father was

         being burnt alive in the mills; Angry that none of us knew

         anything but filth, and poverty. Angry because I was that very

         one somebody was supposed To be fighting for

         Turn him over; take a good look at his face…

         Somebody is going to see that face for a long time.

         I wash his hands that in the brightness they will shine.

         We have a parent called the earth.

         To be these buds and trees; this tameless bird Within the

         ground; this season's act upon the fields of Man.

         To be equal to the littlest thing alive,

         While all the swarming stars move silent through The merest

         flower

         . .. but the fog of guns.

         The face with all the draining future left blank. . . Those smug

         saints, whether of church or Stalin, Can get off the back of

         my people, and stay off. Somebody is supposed to be fighting

         for somebody. . . And Lenin is terribly silent, terribly silent

         and dead.