And you, what story do you have that’s worth
telling? The way you still walk the streets,
your heart a vase emptied of all its massed
and wilted flowers? The way you hide the face
that goes with that: and instead, carefully
cultivate a dropcloth through which a kind
of breathing might be performed? More than once,
twice, thrice— taken from and taken over.
When they say on the side of history, who
do they mean? You can look at the hero’s artifacts
in the house where he spent the last few months
before his execution. Someone shows you a lantern
where a poem was hidden: the last one, goodbye
in its title. We can transcribe it, even if badly.