Naturally, no one cares about anything,
here or there.
For reason or nation
or all our concrete words.
I die
within a passage
until the stations are
rewritten and reread.
Heavy slogans of fear
and time
prompt quick shivers
across the laughing skin of my book:
or a battle breaks the stone
chunks of sky and sea
peaks, ah!  Alas and alack,
should I scratch fragments or not?
And in which notebook?