Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o’er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep

Rich people march on Washington every day.

The march of the human mind is slow.

I’m tired of ignoring that I march to a different beat.

On march the banners of the King of Hell.

March isn’t the only thing that’s in like a lion and out like a lamb.

So we march on, following our leaders, toward an Armageddon of our own making.

Against barbarity, poetry can resist only by confirming its attachment to human fragility like a blade of grass growing on a wall while armies march by.