October 28, 2012 § Leave a comment
this is not a poem about war;
there is a war within this poem
seventeen men whose voices clamour in battle
make war on war: the word
contains a world of men-
but the poem.
sits with its arms around the mountain
waters the plants until they drown
parts the heavens with its lips, and kisses
on each cheek, the ocean formed.
makes war on men.
braves morning; coffee is the slick
sugar of grief and the heart
beats slower still, until it stops
and waits for the poem.
there are no poems of war, for poetry
contains within one word, the lie of peace