Steel grey, no black. The army, The language Of hate The language of the dead To them mixed up letters To me hate clothed in beauty Despair lilting and bouncing With gentle syllables The nightmares find me Paris. They are there.
Poppies wrap their sullen roots about the wrists and ribs.
To paint this on another Sistine Chapel. I don't wake crying. I never do. Only half remembered images Over tea and toast. No twitch of dreams in anticipation Of confronting this evil.