for Lou Cohen
Somewhere there’s a line
telling us where to stop
waking up dead dreamers
beyond the shores of sleep
in tunnels under dirty alleys
in the city. The city: Paris
appears in The Bronx;
Brooklyn is a palisade
or palace. Stops gather
into samples sending
spells down people’s
spines. That’s the way
I like it, not push and
pat on back. I’m ready
to attack, to take down
the living structure, die
with dreams that did us
in, did in the dead with
a bullet in their head.
