Battlefield  

A sun. A brilliance
cutting laser-like 
into the stubborness of
wars raging uncontrollably 
through ancient steam/
fumeroles
gasses 

out of the shadows of some lost dream 
hitchiking along the rails toward Fresno
with eight hoboes and a killer.

Dig here along the once sparkling river for evidence 
of bones that danced on the table of Kings/Cut here where
a dried heart rests after years of hosting guerilla wars;
of savage tribes sticking the heads of enemies on stakes
to frighten the women and children.

Give me light in the crevice of this mountain 
whose song is a crone with battered wings;
sprinkle gold on the dreams of innocent girls 
and their vast delicate lives/ lost

The face/lost
It has come and gone in an instant. Loss.
What does she want of me? I am a loss.