We sat there, in the cockpit. Windows tinted
with fog and entrails: constantly under siege.
And the trees stretched-
Higher than clouds.
Higher than buildings.
Bunched tightly together like a box of toothpicks
in humid air, mist hanging on their branches.
Arms dip low to the earth as though snow
was out of season, but no white could be seen.
And I imagine the psychotics stewing in their
shacks, clawing at eyes and skin until they
were red and not pale.
I can’t escape this place,
not even in my dreams.
It haunts me.
Slowly, they creep from slumber across dirt and
leaves to grab my ankles and feet. Drag me to
the killing fields, beige wheat and shrubs
caked in old blood.
Soon those fields will shade over. One minute
at a time and turn to the color of skin
that’s been clawed at for far too long.