The man in the white coat is the man on the hill,the man with the clean hands is the man with the drill,the man who answers "yes" lies still.

These are our strength, who strike against history.These whose corrupt cells owe their new styles of weakness to our diseases;these carrying light for safety on their foreheadsdescended deeper for richer faults of ore,drilling their death.These touching radium and the luminous poison,carried their death on their lips and with their warning glow in their graves.

Between us, love the buses at the doorthe long glass street two years, my death to yoursmy death upon your lipsmy face becoming glassstrong challenged time making me win immortalthe love a mirror of our valleyour street our river a deadly glass to hold.Now they are feeding me in to a steel mill furnaceO love the stream of glass a stream of living fire.

Buried, five at a time,pine boxes, Rinehart & Dennis paid him $55a head for burying these men in plain pine boxes.His mother is suing him: misuse of land.

Did you ever bury thirty-five men in a place in back of your house,thirty-five tunnel workers the doctors didn't attend,died in the tunnel camps, under rocks, everywhere, world without end.