poem

 Legions

The armies have gathered

On the ridge of the morning

Purple clouds like hypoxic faces

Fighting to see the enfeebling

Dusk of another lost day

Legions of troops trailing,

Sparse and dwindling,

Behind the winged Hussars

Pommaded and feathered up front.

In a few hours these regiments

Will be routed by the cloistered heat,

Erased from even the dreams

That haunt the sleep of non-existents. 

So every day begins with quiet loss.

All that’s left is dull blue sky

Scratched by vaporous wisps, half-diaphanous, 

So high up it burns 

Your eyes to see 

When someone asks what you saw

You lie

8/25/24