there was a boy(unbuttoned spine: tin)
who sang bullets through teeth,
cough-stitched into boots—
(mother would’ve never
known him in pieces)
& you—
mustard! you crawling
godless yellowing yawn-
(you churchless warlock vapor
shuffling up his gullet
like a borrowed hymn)
he——
(let’s name him no one)
swallowed lungs like spoiled pears,
vines of cough wrapped around
his windpipe’s piano
& the keys stopped—one by one—
click
the music changed
—not into silence—
but into smoke
a wordless opera:
gasp.gasp.gasp.gone
his eyes were
paperboats
folding inward
& the dirt applauded softly
in clouds of not-quiet
(a whistle wheezing past his ear)
sergeant said: “keep walking”
but his knees said: “no more poems.”
(there are no metaphors in hell, just
uniforms
without skin)
:he dreamt once of
lemons
& a girl who never existed, probably—
he tried
to say goodbye
but found only
ash vowels &
consonants with no
consonance
(what’s the word for a throat
forgetting how to
be?)
his body un-wrote itself backwards
while the war kept
typing
click
click
.
.
.
& the smoke
did not apologize.