A knife simply couldn’t
have cut the air, that day.
As three perched, side by side.
Dreadful, impotent anticipation.
Across the way,
rolls of flesh
over weapon stacked belts.
Below fat, cruel grins.
Gleeful voids in uniform.
On the distant right
machines, men in orange,
a navy blue column
inching forward, forward.
Too far, by far, too well armoured
for us to see if brows sweated.
A tree line devoured, whole,
the marching kevlar and perspex bloc.
Ten minutes, or more.
The death cold still
got stiller yet, time in rigamorits.
Inertia broken by familiar white clouds
that burst and choke once, twice
a third time and again.
And then rose the first,
the first angry stack.
It eclipsed the sun and billowed black.
Meanwhile our sallow smiling swines
stood, backs to the scene.
In morbid turn, they swapped places
and released shutters for one another.
Salivated over the moment.
Captured for family, for friends?