The syntax of slaughter,
lubricated, rolled upon the palate,
tasted of rust and gunpowder before it slipped into law.
We bring a giant geometry of iron
for the square,
where pigeons, fed on scraps of news,
fall stunned on the pavement,
necks broken by distant battle noise.
Whose coin is this,
pressed hot into our palms
and called a gift?
Coughing rattles the tenement at dawn.
The monument stands upright and blind as the river carries tired oil out to sea.
Someday, another tide will come back in, fresh and clean.