across a reddening ocean

of tangled cables, sinew,

or by a white bloody van upon

a bridge that does not reach,

one by every one the kids

get pulled like toyless crackers.

old moons, familiar soils. still,

the crones warn us in bullets

love is abstract, childish,

we suffer their unreal flag

in swathes of crime tape-

hyperbole, traditions of sickness,

a terrible romance, these apes.