that never lived
like symphonic acts of refusal dancing in the rain
that
never comes but once in a lifetime.
Who is that who that wonders why poets
write words that rhyme when olive trees are bare
and cut down to make room for progress
at breakneck speed, going going gone
beyond a truthful thought that can never turn back
to live outside of itself.
Bearing witness, facing the tank or the bulldozer,
life lives its greatest art.
~A
