THIS IS OCCUPATION

This is occupation. This is an air-raid.
This is starting over. This is the end of
all things planned for. He has two hundred hours
free for the killing

now that she has taken the shovel. He has
taken to resting under hills. His arms ache
after waking curled in the same heep he curled
asleep in last night.

These are left on a dirty quilt, sold
five bucks each at flea markets in a lead
town surrounded by towers, spot lights, guard shacks,
highways empty of

snow banks, blockades. In spite of whatever
treaties signed, whatever toasts toasted since then,
this is occupation. Dozens of sirens
humming with she’s gone.