Radical Lads, Blisters & Glad Summers
       for MP

            Light the lamps for a government
       of impostors—; their background check
              will not work out.
The candidates start their idiotic speeches.
        Their speeches sound like: boing.
They sound like boing boing. They go boing-boing,
boing-boing-boing. Out on the coast, a
  yellow splits in two till only the visible
      remains: near the dairy, such a calm
     doctrine of mustard, a defensible
pageantry...underground, a host of black
       syllables, rushing to the tribes—;

      Walter Benjamin nods on the train;
  he makes it out of Portbou...O Europe, your
        childhood was a rupture: boys thrashing
through thickets, blisters on their knees,
thinking they would be safe in revolution
              with an art too difficult
     to be installed...& didn't they care?
They still care.

Prince of Thursdays, the A
    gives its legs to Autumn, your O
to the osprey. You never
doubted poetry —anxiously
               taking vermillion tones past
  disappointed citizenship—

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Copyright © 2014 Brenda Hillman All rights reserved
from The Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission