blood now is the accoutrement.
night's tenure is the morning's
leasing: what will continue to
  light like a beacon in this
    vicissitude is the flash
    of a *****-nosed nozzle.

no sound is heard.
no bones were felt
trembling.
all the voices were muffled,
thrown into a makeshift exodus.

the pains will be etched away
like moss unraveling the secret
of wall upon wounds like old scarves.

but the ground,
which has girdled this resounding feat, will never forget:
death's squadron enters. harbingers.
what has hidden them in the lull
has now sung severances:
a distance closed
by a fusillade
of bullets.