Has the same coldness when spilled.
There are oceans of it in the buzz cuts
Of Empire, surrounded by barbed wire.
The trees have been carved into rowboats,
To get off the island. Red leaves are
Covering the ground. Another tree
Has the sunrise on its branches.
The division into yellow leaves
Can’t be protected by guns.
There’s no need to chase
The shadows away from
The unicorn, who crosses the nursery
Where baby sleeps as though over
A rainbow bridge. The river below
Is made of melted tanks, machine guns
And wire.
The murky, silver current flows
All the way from the depths
Of Old Man War’s brain,