These converging lines
are not crimson ribbons
but Sangria dipped
guy wires.
.
My plaited hair supports the
mortar, but tourniquets
the plumbing, dampened
over years of adjustment
I wondered into.
.
So, when the order comes to take arms,
I’ll sit upon the century post,
Centre compass.
.
No man’s land
No man’s mercy
For a neckerchief
That is bloodstained.
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