Summer brings its fire thorns
and there in the can’t-be-called-a-sky
the sun is spinning turning wal-
lowing.
The fields all around are singed. Here and there
are patches of green corn like
open sores. This is the truth
there’s no concealing it under the burning
tongue under the
what’s-it-called sky.
The dead, there’s no denying it, are
multiplying day to day, gazing
with eyes that are, it-shouldn’t-be said, dead
and there’s no denying. The widows
are young. The mothers
deaf. We turn our faces
away. That’s the truth, the War
there’s no denying, devours
another summer and then another
in this death-demented, blood-dreaming land.
