tongue:

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.

 

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.

the poem.

 

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

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