By¬†Christopher Lee Miles War, No. 2 A singing hornet hive. A contorted venetian blind splaying starlight onto quilt patches. A Lieutenant of silhouettes. A herd of bleeding dahlias. A scorpion’s tail-tip piercing your pant-leg. A swan-egg dipped in slaughter-dew. And rocket-rain, IED-hail, satellite-guided thunder. A limb-snapping sinew-splitting face- lacerater. A death-clot’s hot-curdle. A heart-gnarling mind-warping soul- shears. An endless & tireless butcher. * Sailor, No. 3 The hoop-shaped sun rises out of the sea: simple facts keep me from madness. The destroyer’s dimple fails to tattoo any wave shellacking the brass rudder’s brief drag. Any wave that would bolt our mechanical brunt to the ocean floor sinks beneath a tossing seething whisk. We could cruise through common sense into the demon-deepened ditches of hell,…