Only the enemy ahead and the past
in tomb-fires crying from Gehenna.
Arpad flags stretched out in neon—
scarscape of a city revisited by war
where the dead-ended street means
bonedust and our bright fear seams
the gold pockets of public executors.

Dark charity of neo-Kane’s feigning
model conglomerates, who would be
nurse-maidens in public but are ass-
eyed in private and shut every flower.
Who, as professional soldiers, protect
no stranger, but clarion a vexed wind,
the death-clicking of heels after rain.


James Byrne



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