Or autumn in Schenectady,

            For falling stars and moonlight 

            It’s the same old smooth routine

            No matter how we kneel

            Or even if we topple in,

            No matter how we rue

            Our squandering

            A death is just a death,

            No bridge

            And this, the rag they left us with,

            As common as a tablecloth –

            Though more reliable when hoisted high

            For cloaking sin

            published in Truthout