I cannot connect: The first warm breeze of the year, “Baghdad Pounded Again”
I just worked on the word, the wood. I’ll finish it tomorrow night
before it’s light. Then I’ll be finished, furnished. Then I won’t know where to start or sit down
It was an Iraqi T-54. We killed ii, popped the
turret clean off it…There was no remorse, no feel-
ing of elation, no nothing
See the child. He is pale and thin, he wears a thin and ragged
linen shirt. He stokes the scullery fire. Outside lie dark turned
fields with rags of snow and darker woods beyond that harbor
yet a few last wolves. His folks are known for hewers of wood
She resigns herself to the lymphoma
ravaging her mother’s body. She was raped in 7th grade.
She was doubted. Her friend cuts herself, precise musical staff
without notes, without screaming,
her forearms scarring. Who cannot listen?
Was it appalling censorship,
hanged, drawn, and quartered?
Did his bad baggage hurt him?
If you’re interested in the entire mosaic,
the military’s coming up with new tricks.
I’ve been on both sides of the fence.
Gavel in the soiled, fictioned way. Death brags requisite
duty, extra-venal confusions, flaking two to three
flowers to compete. Points must have cathedrals prematurely
planted to revive confusions. And if that weren’t enough,
the voracious typographical vines retire after two
mouthes of testament, rehiring still harder dice. I think
I’ll opt for citing open mines putting pilots in the lost will.
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