What was then sung
was a dismal song:
armour plated;
a cactus cantata
with choked melody
and cutthroat words;
mouth shrapnel;
gutter’s gruff blues.
To hear it once
was to be drained,
to wish day over
when barely begun.
Was it within the song
or within himself:
the rooster’s craw
slashed, mid-crow,
as the bloody morning rose?
