Poetry

I am standing in peat. 
The war drags on. 
 
The dirt is raw, 
squirting on to fingernails 
turning them blue. 
Who was running away 
from hinges? 
 
The genital warts were 
spreading. The cold facts will 
wear casuistry. The train 
derails. Only the earth 
is hurt. 
 
Dreams cannot close the 
wounds. You want to go 
where the jungle is. Teeth 
are broken. Eyes 
become the house for ants.