He said: “Straight from the horse’s mouth.”
He said that was straight from the horse’s mouth.

he saw my mother in the scar-city—
brown hair and yellow dusted-down dress
with lips too cracked to hold down a language

a ghost is hanging
from the doorpost
of our past—

My love, who yawns above cities feathered with soot,
      and over jungles deadly as an arsenal.

I am so cold tonight. Lend me your fever
to mull my long pastures of crumbling ice.

The bullet has almost entered the brain:
I can feel it sprint down the gunbarrel
rolling each bevel around like a hoop

They called it a landslide as though 
everything shifted and the weak 
and strong alike were buried alive.

This cemetery is no haven, 
old Jews waving at you 
offering Kaddish for a few dollars, 

The Yangtze River in China lost its nerve
and wanted vengeance.

  The wind is against us and the ash of war covers the earth. We see our spirit flash on a razor blade, a helmet’s curve. The brackish springs of autumn salt our wounds.