The epic cure, they say, is to taste wine.
The one with a neat bottom, saved from dregs.
Dregs don’t cure.
There are marks of oppression,
in the sweaty backs of workers, sunburnt, bent.
Marks teach us that workers are damned.
And only they can get their selves out of
the same damnation.
Marks are red.
We have red dreams.
There’s a wrist to tell.
A peak to reach.
An end to seek.
A life to live.
Philosophy to save.
I lack an…
I lack what the ellipsis replaces.
I don’t know the world.
All I have is lack.
Words, with sorrow, also lack.
Schools are not buildings, nor are they structures.
Schools are points of reference.
Schools are power.
Schools are battles.