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Field Hospital

FOUR POEMS

       FIELD HOSPITAL
Here words are out of bounds.
The pulse of silence throbs,
Reason, licking wounds,
Makes language out of sobs.

Evocative as song
The literate groans explain
That terror's clumsy hand
Pokes at the source of pain.

Words are flecked with foam.
They spread a stain of sound. .
But thought is haunted home
By voices underground.

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