Too rich for the stream
The blood leaks and breaks
Upon the world.

Fear

The soldier in his cell --
The wash of blood
In and out, stinking
Like a sweet rose
In Winter's morning garden,
Is the reapproaching past.

The historian in his cell
Is lame, dry blood
Between his teeth --
Man, he loves to feast.

Between the two men
Stands the thick wall;
It carries the
Tap tap tapping
Of man's fairy tale retold --
Yearning for even more
Of his neighbor's lovely gore.

Mail Art-Damage