Speak with other devices than hearing, there isn't much trouble
not tonight. the battlefield is clear,
there's less haze in the air despite the poignant smell of humans;
some days we bite the apples inside a cloud, made of sulfur
in the afternoon, the mist takes to making women we miss a vision,
tall, slender and ripe of envy among other things.
There's no rash fire around us, not any more
once, three weeks ago I saw a dead-man walk the plains
head bowed to the snow and to hunger
there had been screaming here and there but these
like us are sporadic, non-violent callings for the stars
these days the grounds dismiss the roaches, hunting for beings
who were here by virtue of being, talking to moonlight
when the breaking of fast drives dawn, we find places for the silent new bones.
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