I used to feel guilty for never seeing
a battlefield being burnt out by militia
men or living on stewed grass under
some baked orange African dictatorship
count your blessings people say
and that's true enough
but sometimes tongue tied in a crowded
room helpless in a smoking maze of merriment
I can feel the shadow fall like an anvil
as on those fleeing Asian fishermen at night
hearing nothing but the black slop of water
shark jawed but faceless
beneath the hollow moon
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