XVIII

These fine rails that rile and grip the hands
of the many as they walk were set into stone

to appease the greater good. The flummoxed
masses that weave and groan as the day

grows longer and plays with the night. Their
revolts are expected and reflected in wine

that they sup with a haste I’ve not seen yet.
Still we must hold them up, steady and still,

hoping one day that they notice the support
or the stench of rusted metal on their hands.

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