The general says, This is caviare,
Nor am I out of it. Inside the shed
The power tools warm to themselves. They drill
And flatten on the notion that the meek
Outnumber nails and must be driven home,
A smell of revolution in the air,
Like cuts that will not clot, like missing men
Who families have given up and watch
Ice-skating shows in April. It is June.
We have a chance, the general opines,
If taken at the tide, and he retreats.
The skater falls. She bounces up, her sequins
Prisms on a revolving stage of light.
A mitre saw is humming in the shed.
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