I whirl and twirl,
twisting faster and faster
like a dervish on his toes,
hoping the speed of spin
flings the images away.
 
A minutiae of scenes
which can’t be flushed
down the toilet of memory:
barbecued bodies,
missing limbs,
and the boy with the puppy dog eyes
screaming my name.
 
White robes flare like a mushroom
as the room blurs
and the drums beat a tattoo;
perhaps the goal is accomplished,
oblivion achieved,
but the inner axis skews,
and the kaleidoscope of life alters.
 
2 hrs, 2 days, 2 wks, 2 months, 2 years
the time in-country matters not,
because the Sand Box always
dyes the soul with indelible rot.

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