Anthony Robbins
PATRIOT WITHOUT PAROLE
Low and true in the levantine,
the tyrian, the phoenician sky, the misgiven moon will assert
itself: haggard again, ready to be eaten out again,
to be filled with other-speech, to become, say, the pale victim of oneness,
of the obsession of oneness. The void around it will be perfect,
black slicked with grisly blue: a fist squeezing the moon
for significance, and into purer, hotter, more pallorous
death. The rock will be shining, the moon pulsing deep
inside the fist.
The soldier will look down at the man and take his hand
out of the wound, tightly clutching the sponge that will go
with him then, always, poised, partly filled with blood.
A. F. Moritz
TO HIS SUBJECT MATIER
So I'm left
to
exalt your mere deaths equally
with those that were most greatly mourned,
your lives that would be forgotten
with the vanished ones that the living still most long for,
the ones they still try to follow,
looking on the ground, reading the welts and crushed
pebbles and grass, ruin, as
if
some ancient passing
footfall had blessed them.
