It must have been made
and rejected
in times grinding gears –
a knobby irregularity,
a leftover of smelt and dross.
This is all there is
a gobbet of oven clinker,
but behind it I sense cracked teeth,
soot seared across burnt eyeglasses,
blackened bones,
for after the gas came the flames.
Here it is,
a fragment long convulsed
from its own incineration,
an irregular rake-off, smithereens
dragged across a blind stone floor.
This tittle of slag once had to fit something
the rough rim of an iron door perhaps
behind which an old furnace
still cools in faraway minds.
A ferrous chip chiseled from a gulag,
or a souvenir from an SS campfire meet.
There is always something left
after the unthinkable,
always some spicule of irregularity,
detritus to explain or confound
as we toss it back into the fire again.
It must have been made
and rejected,
in night’s grinding gears –
a knobby irregularity,
a leftover of smelt and dross.
This is all there is
a gobbet of oven clinker,
but behind it I sense cracked teeth,
motes in a burnt eyeglass,
the thin singed bones
of fledgling flights into darkness.
Here it is,
a fragment long convulsed
from its own incineration,
an irregular rake-off, a detritus
dragged across a blind stone floor.
This tittle of slag once had to fit something
the rough rim of an iron door perhaps
behind which an old furnace
still cools in faraway minds.
A ferrous chip chiseled from a gulag,
or a souvenir from an SS campfire meet.
There is always something left
after the unthinkable
is thought upon,
always some spicule of irregularity
to explain or confound
as we toss it back into the fire again.
Fools war to their core, but what do fools war for,
ignoring all wars before,
a course of awful war falls as unlawful war fools on horses call for war,
once more, a war not small for all to endure,
and war fools at war with forces are thoughtless overall,
cus war fools fall forward with force from horses
face first to floors with thorn spicule that thorn the fallen,
a result of faults that halt the war horses,
who in short abort the fortress for the port,
til fools have no more resources,
hostages behind doors eating sour sauces,
and what's more we're not sure what the source of war is,
or reward is, for these awful war fools
and their unlawful forces that fall to floors with thorns in wars from horses,
still war fools war galore and horses gallop to the shore.
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