Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which
turns ghost to ghost? Each mothered child,
insane for the destination,
squelching and squelching through the beautiful red
of wars, wars, wars
in a land strapped by hunger.
Dead and moneyless:
the mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
In that valley the train shrieks echo like souls on hooks.
A million soldiers run
and my heart is too small to bandage their terrible faults.
When their bones are picked clean, and the clean bones gone,
shall a white answer echo from the rooftops
into the stony idiom of the brain?
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
love is a shadow
masturbating. A glitter
we use to punish our children.