who are the sound and
who are the rotten?
the limbs pile up like driftwood,
salt-sealed the wounds, red the
common color to all, the demarcation
line of the tearing, flesh from flesh
you have it to eat, cannibal, on
your polished plates, thrice times daily
and still he says:
dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,
and this he believes, walking in
the Pennsylvania hills close-skirted
by trees
and still the lozenge-boxes, shinyhard,
wrapped in striped paper, come home to us,
these sad sarcophagi in which
warriors sleep
as the rubber wheel of the meds cart
catches against a broken tile, the
tiny droppings in the corner spell out:
whither shall we go from here?
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