Pitted Mirrors

Pitted Mirrors

In the shadow of banks
and humid stars
she serves a tumorous magic.
Lives in a country
I will discard.

Gives birth to good soldiers
like good girls do.
Then sends postcards
to the dead.

Labors in sour purpose.
Just the law
of a rancorous nation

Whose pitted mirrors
reflect the truth:
A rash of the soul
her immediate wound.

Crude rumors
beg her reason.
The story of Helen
imparts my own.



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