on a palomino, bearing dovish bolsters to a barbarian king
the moon rising into a clear sky

weeping for you standing beneath my window 
bayoneted on a Turkish sand
tripping as you race three times around the walls throwing
home court a trembling hand 
tracing broken calligraphy upon your back, sneaking into the theatre
tucked under her armpit, and picked up at the popcorn stand!

And a turn from the coast, tinfoil folded neatly
upon your head, watching the sky 
convinced they'll come 
for you again.  Once a conscript, placed up in the world, now 
a minor bureaucrat, gliding past the drop zone decades
from the dirt which extends north, one

left behind smothered in the ball turret between the sand and
another collapsed upon the dune crest his last gasp

guts stretched across by the shifting of the sands.  
Across the bridge masqueraded 
as something 
you've watched from afar: sliding in the wind, 
somersaulting plank to plank 
across the surfaces of sight, the roads which lead back . . .

you approach the tent, listening for the sound of breath
a rustle as the flap catches the wind; 

mongrel bones bleached from the wear of the casual eye 
uncovered as the dust kicks up again.  I bring you this, from home.
The silkenroad has guided you, you were once there

made the best of a bad war, which no one wins: and now
the face you once left
is returned, sun-blistered, wrapped in dirt and years
surviving the trip on a tired horse, crossing many bridges.

Contributor: Jason Lee