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The Hangmans Great Hands

by
 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.

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