LITMUS

There will be no enemy tonight sewn into war-tights
no smell of sweat and saddles in the yard
no steel plates heated a dull red
and no homeless children-sucking at the nipples of the
	under-world.

No churning centipede to purify the land
and sweep jets from the sky above the gates of the
	under-world
but a dark face fallen from a cart of oranges
shining in the white rain.

Yet somewhere-ice bombs are thrown against the palace
a pike with an alligator's head is propped in a corner
	of a cathedral
and regiments lie naked in white grass -
leaves torn from albums kept by traitors -
silver bodies touched with red finality -
ripped-up like books-of-hours on the ground.

And bishops' crystal hats are broken
in the biceps of my own sweet daughter - LITMUS
my phonograph's now bleeding the white drops of her.

- Lee Ballentine

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