The moment's denting inward like a can,
The poet wrote in a fever of expectancy
But the line went nowhere, it had nowhere to go.

All around her bullets did their bloody work,
Paving stones were heaped up to make barricades,
But the insurrection went nowhere, it had nowhere to go.

She felt she could almost grasp the dialectic
With her naked feet, as it rushed foaming toward
   annihilation.
But the antithesis went nowhere, it had nowhere to go.