At every side,
cannons.
And the only escape…
A small and muddy
swath
with lungs of afternoon
and flowers of
yesterday
soaked in earth
and red oil.
Kettles in either hand
each glowing as stars
and each
screaming
at walls they cannot see.
Chopped skeletons
decorate
and chill breeze
seems to know how foolish indeed
this is.
*
Beyond terrors,
a haven of
mountains
lie silent
and sunlit
but very distant
and very cold
to the eyes.
