Transit Poem


The way it happens proves too much


Russian weapons carved for a dead menace

sold to hungry Hezbollah


Borders get pierced


A regime firm as bone

takes in the Shiite mobs


An ayatollah fingers a final prayer bead

before the burnt fridges of Homs


This is called ash

That is called hole


In Aleppo a stalemate forks neighbors

feathered gunfire plays siege

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