If you and I were woken suddenly
By the drums of Revolution in the street—
Or suppose the door shot open, and there stood
Upright and singing a young bullfighterWith a skin of rough wine, offering to each of us
Death, sex, hope—or even just an
Earthquake, making the trees thrash, the roofs tumble,
Calling us loudly to consider God—Let us admit, with no shame whatever,
We are not that kind of people;
We have learned to weigh each word like an ounce of butter;
Our talent is for anger and monotony—Therefore we will survive the singers,
—James K. Baxter
The fighters, the so-called lovers—we will bury them
Regretfully, and spend a whole wet Sunday
Arguing whether the corpses were dressed in black or red.