Camping on The Battleground
White light on
purple eyes the night skins at you the reeds
wrapped in yellow string vent themselves
in the mouth exhaust
Lungs aren't quite like pipes tube fibers
that branch infinitely snail feelers
in search of a shell
The conch of the ear radios for help no one
there probably a number for an abandoned phone booth
It's too cold for this the marsh is milk in this cold
the reeds are turning gray in this cold
The sky is a pool of absorbing in this cold
There is the echo of horse hooves the spectral
image of a rider the fires of death
do not go out -
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