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A poem for labor

September 3, 2012

Labor cries do not

make still hearts beat, as

unions pour through

International artery;

workers chained to

other migrants, to boat

people of River Styx.


We hold the line.


We stand between masses

and authority. We pull

Red string taunt, keeping

bodies from traffic.

Keeping living from dead.

The dead break through.

They are unafraid. They

see newness coming.

They fill our mouths

as we cry out for labor.

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