59

The engines have been tuned
And their throats roar fire,
Spitting out carbon from the plugs.

Opponents rejoice and their names,
Torn from every magazine,
Flutter and catch on the bush.

A stone under slats
Of the blind casts
A shadow on the dead

Wall that only the blot
Of light can erase. Dread!
To have a name without a face!


© Dan Goorevitch