Tuesday, February 15, 2005


There’s so much
we haven’t seen
or been through

take a war and
poke your eyes out
that gets close to it

To the gist
the smell of
burnt hair

the grease still
smoldering from
an overturned car.

I am the war
the breath of mother
as she watches

the field burn
the tiniest lips possible
stuck on the country’s

There are no fields
of cranberries

on the way to death
just certain flames that
leap from sand

never proven
that rock could burn
until today.

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