Many times
had I the occasion to hurl these little bottles,
fly off my own metaphorical handle, dropping soon
upon the whispered crowd like a million substitutes
for war: Ram cars and knives into each other, seeking the equilibrium
that may come when psychic somehow, feeling in our hearts:
We are suicide, the people of a nation, and
there have been others like us.
© 1992 Daniel X. O'Neil
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