12 28 24 crisp golden sun
Crisp
golden
sun
in late
December
while
old cream
curdles
somewhere
deep
in a corrupt
intestine
and I’m
attempting
to clear my mind
of the
horrors
of war
but it makes me
feel
cowardly
and
unworthy of
self respect
but doves
have
never done well
against
hawks
but I know
when the time comes
I will stick
my beak in it
until somebody
bites
it
off.