Brief

The word is its own fetish, the self-same
overvalue and undercut, the ruin
of intention and invention, and, still,
word knows the touch of the green sleeve of grace

so flimsy, so fragile and so faithless
is breath, tiny offspring of restless wind,
within the envelope of changing flesh
it is what I am, my calling, culling

no knowing if "war"" was the beginning
word can have fangs and slither snake subtle
I suppose that word is my religion
I don't abominate its emptiness

before the staunch barricade of silence
brief demonstration of air's anarchy