Mythic Warfare

sunlight grazes plains with yellow-hair husks through winter
quiet wind undoes cornfields from unrolled hair held
behind the head of a granite-weather as she
enters into battle to do battle with an unseen enemy, no

one there, buildings stare back at her fierce lightning-breasts
her twitching smile of certainty shading the mountains with
each pause, then finally

strikes, at what
air, what
no one can
pretend to ignore,
no one there, yet

she attacks again,
but again
for what
purpose, for
what reason,

it is and remains
difficult to address the absence of people
not here, nor
near their original
people of their
presence felt known
but where, in
not here, but
their bodies are,
or are cloned

ancestor replicas sit on a shelf
spears aimed at the car shop window
behind the register a bull with hornets dripping from
his nostrils made of rubber, his eyes
the glass of windows, easy to crack
if caught in a tornado, bees
from within his skull

fly at the glass as if they could escape
into our reality, but
they cannot, and they
remain bees slamming a transparent wall
a noise cars make when slamming into each other, he

blinks and there’s silence, a pause
where difference of times and continents
divided by the past, momentarily reconciled in a
swift string of occurrence, directly
providing availability to landscape-merging, where

what a man said with a beard and an axe holding over a log says
while my language now with a computer
sudden translation without interference, hearing
movement of water drunk from the roots of trees
dispersing slowly up its trunk slowly extending out to its branches,
limbs, to the furthest extensions of its



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