Remembrance Day,
and I keep looking at my watch,
Remembrance Day and the guns ring
like nails into wood.
Poppy broach bearers
croon through koy-carp lips:
‘Make haste, and efface,
in honour of the dead.’
And I sit taciturn like a drunk,
tired of his own clumsy words,
behind the dumb-drunk eyes of a fish.

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