Max Schleicher

The camera pans the crowded slate floor:
seizures, stone seepage covering their lips.
A river stunned in this one’s neck. A doctor
leans over him to wipe his mouth and tip
a water bottle down his milky tongue.
His irises gape blue salvage yards,
his pupils detonate the drowned
light of the triage ward.
                                        In a bright war
it seems that if only his eyes were bigger
he could die exactly like this forever
bridging its back, smacking like ice on the floor
a body shaking itself back together
shaking as he tries to roll, to turn
onto his side, to survive inside a gesture.