Look, our careless sleep has laid the world

to siege. Morning thrusts its tattered sails

like white surrenders into this, our dream,

our winter palace, while spores of mustard gas

steal homeward from the breach so we might

taste our cruelty with those towns strung out

all night beneath our windowsill to starve,

their ribcage pipelines, streets for spines,

church-domes knuckling up against the sky.

For now, I’ll run my palm along the snarl that

wreaths your dreaming smile like an ablution.

Look: these eyes have not been driven blind

from weeks of hunger, and will not accuse you.

Illustration: Alex Matraxia