THE POET TO HER YOUNG COMRADES 5 - FOR LAURIE
We quarrel, often. And of course it's true
and rarely trivial. We'll get it right
although it means we sit up half the night
in rooms, on twitter. Such a shame that you
will not accept you're wrong. As obstinate
as Trotsky, though no ice pick to the head
occurs. Because we do not want you dead
just very sorry, dialectic's weight
heavy upon your chest. Then you confess
quite insincerely, but we do not care.
What once was solid melted into air.
The question's time-expired, well more or less.
Just mentioned briefly in some final bitch
when fascists shoot us all in some deep ditch.