The working class don’t go to paradise
they travel crammed into the entrails
of a thunderbolt or worse: inside the wing-blow
of a lightning flash, slender-bodied,
bold-faced, or topless.
The working class knit the sky’s wounds
in the workshops of time
as well as on looms, dreaming,
depending on who reads this and where, depending on
who hears this, who understands it,
what might be their personal flag
or the homeland’s flag, the north
of each individual, their entire life.
Depending on who’s looking at it, how it’s seen.
Here or in China the working class
do not go to paradise: they travel in torment
in the entrails of a lightning bolt crammed
inside the entrails of a chicken
struck dumb in the wingless breeze
which with a soundless blow
evaporates in the air
as a flash of lightning evaporates
in the heavy air of a storm
amid the old looms
of the sky.