They build half-worlds from the
rubble of memories crushed in
one instant of impact as their
spinal cords snapped.
They awake each grisly-taloned
dawn - verterans' veterans -
only to slip away again,
somehow fed and sedated, into
their deep and perpetual silence.
Their eyes are long corridors down
which an intern runs with bloody
hands and sweaty skin. A man weeps.
He lies locked in a frame, while,
overhead, a TV hums...a man in a
Campbell Soup hat has just won a cow.
Some shout, some stare, some weep:
a revolt to preserve the last shards of self.
(But at night, their dreams amble about
the yellow darkness, between the
breathing and the cries).