belching flies

He died in the night, belching flies, carnage in the manger and the dogs barking in the yard, the planet tilting into the fire like scraps scraped from a plate, women beheaded, men drowning on their sofas in digital dreams, a war that never ended like some subterranean fire, chewing through the peat while the world slept on, a movable cancer, a moon chased shadow puddling over the globe, there will never be a time your name’s not somewhere on that list. He died in the night with the world outside his window paying no attention already fallen to the dogs and the troops who came in with the mist, steam until it was too late, then steel til the end.

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