(hit it, bugles)
today
on this frozen ground
where the steeds have lined up
for siege
queen and glory
nobody speaks
there must be that music
for a cheer (some sort of rally)
bringing lungs together
the rows of hearts drum
deep in unison to
open the veins (all the
more ready) to spill
out the blood and some entrails
onto these shields of our brothers
holding ribcages together
on the ragged terrain
frost kissingteethingtugging at the
two or three weeds who
bothered showing up
to this spectacle of wretched and
horrible things
where we champions
close our eyes give birth
to ghosts
hewing hewing away
with the very vibrancy
of some spiritual thing
in the blade
going deep
in the skin of him
or her or it
(fuck lost it) can’t
even see (too dark)
and the horses are
dead they’re all just dead
harnesses litter the ground as
they whimper the last of their moments away
knowing neither the name of the queen
nor the country
nor the brazen valiance of every rider
so bold so wise so full of reason.
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