To Resistance, My True Love
I want to join the resistance but it may not exist.
It may be that below, in the world of graffiti, an imposing
museum of lecherous reification
has put the swarmed signs to the fir-like & lachrymal sails
of a slow forest ship.
In the gale little meadows are shook but how still
are the trees of my century
dying, one thinks that the branches are calm
will not wither away over time, despite dreams
& the sun is not well, doesn’t burn away clouds
through eruptions, though here it is bright.
—Dana Ward