The green, green grass extends for miles
A young river runs across it
Now & then a flock of birds
disturbed by alien human presence
flaps out of trees
& on to the plain
Finally a hollow of twisting vines & rocks
at the foot of the boondock –
& There’s the lay of things at the garden:
Dull-white skulls & bones
like porcelain jars & stones
lying in cheerless disarray like their former lives
for priests & military guys
to exorcise the gross handiwork:
The general wears a benign smile
as though he were master of the sport.
Yes, there was that tragic operation
but the culprits had shifted to the other side.
Who’s site is it, pray do tell.
History is Benjamin’s angel
gliding blindly into a squall
Its head of stone burning toward us all…
Survivors in despair may wring their hands
& raise resistance on to higher ground
or turn willing apostates & handymen
of bureaucrats whose foul deeds remain
from public eyes officially hidden.

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