FRONTLINE
the storm front raged
then moved on
nothing to see
nothing to say
nothing to write: put
away that pen
the hail falling as
thick as flak
point to make
hard as
triple A
night sky lit
over
Berlin
Baghdad
all hail to you too
rich, brave Crassus,
enough gold in your vault
to proclaim
you deity of thunder
more coins than there were leaves
on the trees cut down to
make Roman examples
all hail
to you Crassus and
in the trenches opposite to
the popular front
who threaten
to melt that gold
and make
him swallow
who amongst the Parthians
such a poet
to think of a correction so
figuratively apt?
and now
the Empire cannot hold, its fat
Emperor is tottering
this Empire premised on forever expansion
eternal conquest
is losing to history, just cannot break through