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BBC Stringer (Above the City of ___________, Early November)
"Fool, . . . look in thy heart, and write!"
Shells: Like earth coughing up ribbons of blood. The moon
Soaks the besieged city in a firth of clouds. Mud
Everywhere, like the ashes of ceasefires. Soon
The shells hit -- a soft, not unsatisfying thud.
"What happens 'down there' is an unfelt dream," I note,
As soldiers drink, play cards, and the afternoon
Rain, night really, bleeds the ink off what I wrote.
Now, closer, shellfire shocks branches from the trees.
This pine needle feels like a soft, fiberous bone.
Deer will sleep here once the soldiers leave.
A week earlier, in their capital city, ensnared
In a woman's scent, my cock a pricked balloon,
I slept with tides of a prostitute's wavy hair
Nestled under my chin. That was what felt real.
What cannot be caught in flesh becomes a moan,
Sleep, that city where we who are all blind feel.
I wish she had changed me into wishes of a lover's far
Imagining. Boredom has turned viscious in its gloom.
Above this sadness I see cysts of stars.
Why, when I look in my heart, is there so little room?
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