She had made up her mind,
to be alone,
to cut herself off
from all perfunctory contacts.
He, too, was widdershins,
unwinding the sensations
of disintegration and anti-life.

Neither of them could stand
each other,
let alone the thought - the treason
of growing old
together.

We returned to alien children
and wives we had forgot,
homes submersed in rot.
These women would not soften
privy that we picked dead men
from our teeth: brother’s blood ill-begot.
We writ their names in the sand not
seen by morning-light, their bones broken,

carried away by evening tides.
These men will not forgive us,
in sleep we sweat and scream
in nightmares our time we bide.
Within your guts we hold their rage continuous—
and only when compared to the devil are we redeemed.