Never Mind
The Marxists called the slaughter in the camps
Of deep freeze Russia “detours.” What they meant
Was grandiloquent History has small cramps
Made up of murdered millions. Its ascent
Is massive and its purpose is as calm
As grey philosophers who know the truth
That all is adamant. When History’s palm
Is waved in blessing over us, no ruth
Or gentleness is shown. The great ideal,
Relentless in its stride, stalks red and we
Don’t matter. Agonies will make us squeal,
But so what? We’re as crucial as Donne’s flea.
What matters is the grand design behind
The march. Progress is masterfully blind.
