January 1919

What if I know, Liebknecht, who shot you dead.
Tiegarten trees unroll
staggering shadow, in spite of it all.
I am among the leaves; the inevitable
voices
have nothing left to say, the holed head
bleeding across a heap of progressive magazines;
torn from your face,
trees that turned around,
we do not sanctify the land with our wandering.
Look upon our children, they are mutilated.

Christopher Middleton, “January 1919” from The Word Pavilion & Selected Poems (New York: The Sheep Meadow Press, 2001).
Source: The Word Pavilion and Selected Poems (The Sheep Meadow Press, 2001)
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