irenic milk ritual under occupation

smoke in the sand never bothered the quick
like boiled milk, they take their trays down
to southern borders irenic and sound for now

where trampled airways conduct ire or gusts
their boarding parties strangers unto themselves
never here before making themselves a tent
for a listening post over the entire native town

as you know the groceries were counted again
the crops all failed at once just as timely before
they could not bring good fortune, no not them

the occupiers only operate on the peaceful kin
where a simple scan and retreat would’ve settled
more appropriate than the marriage they ask for

they hang their gear in the middle of things
obstructing their story of this town’s people
we led them here thinking they offer aid
but even the doctors stare at our young girls

let it be that our hidden wreckers will quake
and recall the ancient stories of still combat

the wreckers channel ghost cascades wakened
the dreams of the soul at rest now gathered
unabated strength, first hidden from their sight
we love those lone starry heroic passages so cold