You say love is a battlefield, & have
the choreography to prove it, but
it isn’t. Blasted trees, gouged earth, people
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who were once other than things, a silence
that’s a type of blasphemy, where death
is depthless; a field of vision from which
all dimensions save one have been removed,
a flattening & then a fattening,
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slaughter’s self-fulfilling prophecy:
that’s a battlefield. But have it your way.
One foot on the parapet, gun in hand.
Waiting for the signal to go over
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the top. It’s okay. Most soldiers don’t know
what they’re fighting for until it’s too late.