I’ve learned hard lessons, some of them old.

For instance, some people must be hurt to be helped.

Poets, do them a favor. Pick up your pen

(This is not a time for pacifism)

Pick up your pen, find the nearest throat

And put that pen right through it.

But do not dunk their head in the water.

Sing while the blood flows in Allegheny whimpers,

Plug that wound with your verse.

Tend them back to life with timbre

While their head bobs for life above the river. 

Maybe it’s your landlord, brother, whoever.

Stab them till their subtle voice sprouts eyes 

And light flows back through their lips.