Jun 17, 2012
At the hot gates again, in deserts,
Alexander tucked into your ruck
always lessons of Thebes, always lessons
of war and fight, necessity, you breathe.
He spared poets, hunting daughters of Pindar,
because they would sing for him, release
words like bats over Afghanistan’s violet sky
dusky fame, dusky scattering flapping wings.
The heart of war faltered, this one fibrillates,
who loses, who saves face
buried, buried beats, scattered,
all that’s left is thunder, the great white stars.