Derelict on Boston Common The subway
murmurs the leaves on the elms
and the hearts on Beacon Hill
where John Hancock’s waspish
ghost turns his back on
Michael J. Delehanty Square,
watching your scorched bum eyes
squint the scavenged Globe
under the streetlight’s half light,
taking your sweet time over the world’s
words. You sit
in gamy isolation
as the exhalations from the subway
fog dreamily onto the sidewalks
toward the hill and over and beyond…
at home, like the fat pigeons, but less
importunate (you beg only
questions). Snap
of a frayed hasp, release
of will like a homing bird
caged so long destination dissolves:
a backing-away (as a burnt-out lion-
tamer, the beast only a chair-length at bay)
from one cage into a larger and even
larger until the last bars diffuse
and you’re free to be free of fear,
of aspiration. While
we clever vestigia, blinding
the world with our nervous gloss
admire the faces in our glossy shoeshines,
tug masterful earlobes, pace the walks
resolute and brisk, wonder how
out of the corner of the eye
the crust begins to crack and the
flight from the cage
begins: The first bit
of rust appears, underwear rots
on our shanks, nails grow
brittle and crack; gin-blister deepens
under the dirt-crust of our only home,
our skin. Out of the dark
I search for light; it hangs back
like the cold shadows behind
the great American elms, the seeping
history that pervades
this place with a place for
us all. The clock
in the tower rings and rings
again; I pursue its peal through the
streets, impressed by duty, touching,
on the way past out of the corner
of my eye, your round
shoulder. You twitch
me on my way. Through a cold
rain I trot for cover toward
the light. —Richard Hopkins NOW LIE IN IT Now Lie In It Make the rumpled bed chaotic basin of disrupted dreams where we fought sleep and each
living loving other glance through the open door a task still calling to be done the sheets a clinched fist tuck me! smooth my wrinkles! now? later? if then when? a rondo of making sleeping dreaming
waking then making again when you get around to it maybe before lunch then lie in it
again measuring time. —Richard Hopkins Che Guevara is Dead “ I have been told that Che’s last words were: “I am Che. Don’t kill me. I have failed.’ I had the impression he wanted to save his life. It’s very often like that. In battle, you don’t feel fear, but afterwards you become a coward.” —Admiral Ugarteche
Commander-in-Chief of the Bolivian navy I am Che “Cooly executed…
wounds in the heart and both lungs…”
Bent
Then pushed upright
Barebreasted
Arms already rigid
For the press to note with their cool Nikons
How this man of various passports,
Various violences,
Had died trying
In a country so high and dry even
The poor don’t stink
Where bodies rot quickly
And must be interred
Before heroism sets in. Don’t kill me – The campesinos
Were pushed away from tearing
At his flesh
Whether in rage or ecstasy we don’t know
He believed in death but not
His own
Loved death but himself more.
Surely he died
Reasonably
If not well
Uttering failure and fear
For repetition by
Ironic admirals
Without navies
Or seas to float them on. I have failed In your business
Hate and love
collaborate
True failures fail before
They start
Not after
They killed you steeped
In their own fear
And failure
They killed you after all
Despite success failure truth life-wish
With the lawful license
Of logic and power
And bullets from a gun
Hard facts Where
By the way
Fearful cheerless Che
Is your next death
Coming from? —Richard Hopkins —TOP OF PAGE— | 
