To love war is to resurrect it out
of stone, to fondle it from head to toe,
until war’s body and blood, a burnout
cypher, a hex, a woe, begins to glow.
To love war is to turn its ash-blown night
into a deep crater, somewhere a hawk
can roost down in. Craters in the moonlight;
inside war wears kick boots and a mohawk.
To love war is to give up your bizarre
heart for copper wire, chrome tubes. Can you, who
loves, say what love is? No, it just is. War
doesn’t know either, but it loves you, too.
Like all love it presses its blade, pointed,
sharp, to your heart until you’re drained of blood.