Peace

I’m done with fighting. That is what
I’m done with. Rise, o thousand words,
And screech like pyrotechnic birds
The chorus in my throat, Peace, not
Crows or spears or medals, only
Peace, Peace, Peace, the same meaning white
Like light before the dawn, like night
In tents of moonshine, o so boldly
White blind soldiers, surely, follow.
The war is in the spirit: there
Do all the gorgons hoarsely bellow,
There do we confront the stare
Thrown by the crumbling Apollo,
There we treatise – but with air.