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.