tanks churn up the strip.
Everything runs uphill, even water. There’s a fractured
black line between the hours,
like a bridge. Run to cross it
as night falls. Guns are fired because
words cannot describe the brute force of words.
This scented field full of dahlias, I arrive there, see my own
ghost walking there. This BBC film,
the blossoms of gunshot wounds on mens’ shirts. To surf
the gentlest crest
of white. It all runs uphill,
even living. The documentary of sleeplessness
runs on behind the eyes of children
as their fathers shoot nightmares
in broad daylight.