published in I am not a silent poet today.
thanks to the editor Reuben Woolley
i dream i dream of porcupines.
white feathers dipped in blood.
bloody mess wars,
bodies rotting there. there
are thoughts while stitching that
this could save the world.
a quiet thing. no injuries, the blood
comes small in useful drops.
drops down, meditative sound.
white feathers fall.