You count brain shards from the dislocation,
the uncoupling
galloping across the landscape
swollen with rupture.
So, it just won’t happen.
Something about pealing.
The bells in the village, perhaps?
The village dismantled.
The village as nitwit with Styrofoamed beans’ brew.
You’d be better off returning
to your position in the fold, in the field,
in the fray, as they say, awaiting the confluence.
(Insert Beckett’s "I’ll go on" here.)
But this time to live with another
and the other
dancing to the parroting
of the coldly clinical.
Really?
Perhaps not (Guffaw!)
tallying the lesions of war
waxing nostalgic
swimming upstream with all your might.
