War the War

War the war, the sorry edge

of us, because we stacked nice

clean plates for days, we were

sure things when love broke

across the headland, leaving

conch shells in ditches,

five fish slapping on the steps

of the old town hall, it was winter,

we were bonfires unattended,

our bodies litigating, agreeing

and writing it all down, the law

of legs, the law of how we sleep,

the law of shoulders killing me,

and now we fold clothes without

thinking my clothes your clothes

and war the war o happy war

what love we are so badly bitten

in this long-term necessary chapel

with all attendant relics, citronella

candle, junior hacksaw,

a box of miscellaneous wires,

our headland way-way underwater,

no one else beside us

but ourselves beside ourselves.