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The War


It begins with a gesture and then grows
into a military tank that begins
to speak in death-speak. 

A guard’s eye watches
from behind a screen that conceals
his embarrassing thoughts about being.

He goes tramping across whatever continent 
he finds in front of him, relishing the metals 
and gemstones as if they were canapes 

and day was a dance party 
and night was a novel set in a featherbed. 
Chapter four is for those young enough 

to not know what took place 
in the garden, those who didn’t 
have to hide under a hedge, watching

as the Minotaur’s feet came closer. 
I was told to breathe in/breathe out, 
like an iron lung blowing air into an acorn 

into which a pinhole had been drilled 
on either side. Listen, I was told, 
to the death rattle while you pretend 

you’re underwater in a river of kindness 
that loves only you. 
You know nothing will get you through this.



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