IRAQ, IRAQ

Flood season, and the banks of the river
become part of the river,
taking with it a tangle of trees
like spiderwebs.
Occasionally a hand surfaces
detached from an arm,
or an arm split from a shoulder.
The sky is the eye of a bat;
the wind, the shriek of an owl.

We lie in the bed we unmade,
clawing at sheets, savaging dreams.

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