The War Against Utopia
Our forces now advanced.
				            At first
the going was easy; they pushed forward
against light opposition.        Soon
the opposing light
grew brighter, dazzling, burning
with virtue.                          Still
they advanced, our forces: sunglasses
were issued: fluids
intaken.
              But all flesh
withered in this pure light,
this pitiless light,
from grape to raisin; our bold forces
took cover of night,
advancing now through dreams -
amphibious forces
striking across vast waters underground,
startling great flocks of blind, black waterfowl
whose wingbeats swamped our craft
(the craft we had dismantled and manhandled,
worked painfully down through crevices and cracks
of dream; squeezing soft flesh
against the sharp-edged local stone;
pushed forward, pressed down).
                                          Advancing now,
our forces, back into light of day,
covered by powers of air
(or so we thought); our losses slight,
mostly to friendly fire, or hostile waters;
morale still high.
                           At home, we reconsidered
our war aims; our objectives limited still:
to roll back, re-establish boundaries,
restore normality.
	                   It seemed so possible -
ordered - surgical.
At first. Not now. Not in the light of what...
But still the war continues,
pressed by all means,
in every element: pushed forward,
advancing,
struck down by surgery, rising again,
advancing,
sweeping again in triumph -- till we fall
at last to earth stripped bare by friendly fire. 

Poem: Suitcase
Poem: White Bits
Poem: Not A Theory Of Poetry
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