For seventy-three civilians I leave
The flowers that drones leave on dusty ground
And wrap them in responsible newspapers leaving your tragic news.
For thirty-five children oh fuck it
I leave statistics like coat pegs to hang shame from
And wrap myself in my own arms trying to make sense of first worlds.
For white news anchors selling skin and Gods
I picture little Hamza holding Pokemon monsters to be found
And wrap myself in lovemaking so I can bury begging boys and girls.
For forty-three years I have lived well
Drones once made honey weeping from blackfly Acacia
And I wrapped myself in the swirling fumes of my Dad’s knackered moped.
For seventy-three civilians with names
I will simply report that your deaths were not reported
And that Donald Trump’s boulevard star has a wall built around it now.
For seventy-three holes being dug shallow
I hope your sleep leads to an awakening where news stations
Are not named after foxes or big blue graves that drones fall from for what?