For Pierre Peuchmaurd

We were children in search of happiness
happiness in search of children
we were the antithesis of a world
a lightless world
a slopeless mountain
we were a golden fleece
the mob couldn't reach
we were the voice
and the poem
the morning
and the light
the head
and the practice before the game
we were the white-haired revolver
in the worker's hand
while the bullet
was down there
in the heart
fumbling
between the lines
for words.

We were howling
like a hurricane wind
settling the score
that History will beam
from the exquisite corpse
and shower
over our graveyard.