deeply entrenched below, helping to hold the castle,
a suit of armor against the wall. stone halls keep
drafty. orchards in the courtyard will still appear pretty
on fire, for a short while. the sacking of a city is
never suffered by everyone equally. such is the violence.
well, the weak don’t take
a breath until it is all over,
but you know, you know it is never
over. scorched countryside abroad. we had heard word on wing,
but that was a fortnight ago. the dove post has burned.
word comes on hooves now or not at all. the moon may be
the same for every onlooker,
but the dogs howling here give me the grims. they must be bitter
about the food. and the roads. look how they’re crooked.