whirring helicopters are the hammers twirling in my temples,
and in the trenches of my brain
soldiers march in heavy boots.
they squeeze the spongy soil; blood seeps out like groundwater.
if i were the earth, i'd wail with the songbirds,
and caves would howl as tornadoes whistle into them.
ammunition would rust in puddles, and gunpowder would be sprinkled in tea.
in a japanese cherry-blossom garden, kimonos would be hung out to dry,
and a b-29 would chime with the silver spoons dropped on the china
helmets litter the streets, and medals cling onto trees in december,
children croaked carols; crouched underneath rubble, knocking on horizontal doors.
migraines stirred clouds and lightning so that planes would decorate the oceans
with steel-green and red paint, and if i were the earth,
i would string them up in a pretty necklace, polished with stockings covered in grit.