(Cont.d)if it’s poetry to summon
from holes and caves
those who swallow
little more than poison
to summon peasants bent
like hoes over furrows
that suck sweat and blood
to excavate from sulphur-
mines human flesh
condemned to cook in hell
(wait, I’m about to burst)...
if it’s poetry to dream
one-thousand, one-hundred
thousand white kerchiefs
to daub swollen eyes
to dream soft beds
and silk pillows for
the wrenched bones of workers
and imagine the earth is carpet
of leaves and flowers
where naked soles of the poor
cool off on their journey