Sundays, too,
the soldiers get up early, and put on their fatigues in the blue-

black day. Black milk. Black gold. Texas tea.
Into the valley of Halliburton rides the infantry—

Why does one month have to be the cruelest,
can’t they all be equally cruel?

Poetry, January 2009

2 years ago
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    A perfect poem for this evening (I’m taking a few hour breather from Elsa Morante’s History: A Novel to watch tv, surf...
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