Fewer words

Is it selfish

The shellfish

Pitted peasants

Score your shore. These olives

Hard-hearted Bolsheviks

Toy soldiers, awaiting orders – war.

As a caustic mould

Ground by tooth and claw

To powdered chalk, caught

About my mouth. My soul –

The downy goose-feathers

Taut in sluice of talk.

You spoke. The elevator

Warming my mind descended

Down to nought.

Arms a prefabricated shroud

Against the cold, my throat

I thought.

The balm of tears tears

Down, down, the moulded feign of

Throat.

That time forgot

And love-worn words

In the moonlight,

Seal this oath.