It is a problem of organization, angels
In their syndicates look down, elites
Have always looked down on us, she said,
But if everyone refuses to die
Simultaneously, a kind of general strike
Then they will have no choice
But to come to the table, she said, striking
Her fists on the table, which caused our drinks
Which were also candles
To spill. It happened in a village in Spain, she claimed.
It is a strange profession, to wake
And feel it fading as you set it down, but
Maybe if we get organized, organize
The fading coals, the church could play a role
With its organs. When he walked
From Munich to Paris to tell his friend she could not
Die, that was a good religious poem, but the time
For poems is over, now is the overtime
For action, now and never. I saw an angel
Break up a strike into blue, yellow, white
Flames at the wake, I raised
The match to my lips, which were moving
As I read out the names. And when I see gas flare
In the wells, I have these feelings
I mistake for interventions, set down dreams
That don’t belong to me, but I’m willing
Not to die, if only everyone everywhere simultaneously
Wakes, refuses to be elected, the way he came
Promised eternal life, would have worked
In England, she said, drinking from the candle.

Ben Lerner

Ben Lerner’s new novel, Transcription, will be published in the spring. (February 2026)