It is war. The debris
of art, of the clothing
of the dead fly, mystical
over the town, black
soft mica shreds, black
with red sparks, black
the Wicked Witch of
the West inravels into
the sky a creation tale,
but the impact of all
this deadly art sinks
a crater into the ground
200+ people die therein,
it's the usual statistic
I find shelter, we tell
stories, I sleep, awakened
by a pack of unknown dogs
licking my face. Earlier
a deer wandered in to my
home such as it is and gave
birth to a camel or was it
a llama they look kind of
similar around the mouth
and head, and both carry
fatty deposits on their
backs; good for traveling
in regions lacking resources.