by Erin White
The dog might howl forever, if unleashed
As any loving thing is bound to do
The body of the storm is blind belief
The hound is sound and knowing in the centre.
We kneel before the Operation Orders
With weapons wrought in iron’s imitant
We spill our holy wine along the borders
We feed unsinging pitches to the fever
With artless vices gripping Bethlehem
Some holy beast is waiting in the wings
It gathers ammunition to condemn
It slouches to the servers to be infinite.
We scour the open ocean, filling wounds with information,
seeking some dark replication of the truth.
Between Time and Text 