O!
Just a little sound
a small wound
a trifling sting:
It’s often a simple thing
I’ve found.
O!
The bullet hit there
in his black hair
in his large head
first quick! Then dead!
He was alive, I swear!
O!
He just left home
he’ll just not come:
Instead he’ll send you, aged five,
silent little letters.
Lamb in fetters. Shearers. Dumb.
O!
Just a little pain:
It’s cancer.
My agile dancer
not for much longer
is the cellular o! dear answer.
O!
The emptying cattle train:
Man-shy. Entering eyes have not seen
emerging naked flesh, hosed o! so clean.
Forget the Zyklon chamber
but remember the rattle
and smell of death, though –
obscene.
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