A hundred paper bags
filled with the manure of espionage,
the heat like the dead
alive, crawling their way out of phones.
I’d rake the muck, take
my time, not wanting to pick the rabbits
caught in the barbed wire.
I’d rather do this—heat. Ensure nothing
remains. Not one word.
The cough, a decade later, never going away,
the V.A. telling me
At least you weren’t in Iraq. The titanium
there has turned lungs
to mud. You just inhaled too many secrets.
Ron Riekki's books include U.P., The Way North, and Here, http://msupress.org/
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