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.