I admit the soldier saw us capture that image
He turned to link the drier wind with the stolen souls
He must have been what, only nineteen
it was hardly war after all
As his mother hangs his uniform out on a loaded wire
the last lapwing cry rounding his stiff cotton in the ceremonial fashion
Bridal husks bleached by the horizon
white enough to be salted, to be saved
to overcome their poor hollow anatomies
Excerpt taken from Wedding Beasts.
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