spill such vile bile slush sunny faces, happy to care for

contrived diversity, intimacy a set nestled in a sterile womb,

lost to art. No part ceases, reabsorbed, cell slurped carcass,

I had a friend; I hope he rots, the ground, squirming

skittering little shrubs and sewers, joy, and cherubs, see him

as he upon us, if not him but I,

who’s next? words confess screamed anyone and in that, only once.

watched joy, and beauty

unreality; one brief flash believe.

faces traces names and voices lower brows, higher cheeks,

focus less, past, and those given. their own,

separate aims, inwards, towards Iraq, “ may be reopened;”

through towns, no language, jungles, deserts,

Sean Flynn and Dana Stone,

“Bao Chi! Bao Chi!”