"The day was not all destruction. As the Marines fought their way through a town seemingly empty of civilians, it was a surprise when the troops leaped into a house during a firefight to find a confused and elderly man seated on the front porch. He was dressed in brown pajamas and he was alone. The Marines gathered around him, with the bullets zinging past.
"Afwan," he said in Arabic, the word for "excuse me." "Afwan."
The Marines moved on and left him standing on the porch."

--Dexter Filkins

VIII.

Pallid choir, irrational night
dumbfounds you in your ennui waltz;
forks will nonplus your languor myrrh
with roughshod jib. What’s this posh thing?

An abyss ago, basilisk
moons spool loops, and kinky rainbow.
Six is all: without indigo
nor toatsy warmth in our top kiln.

It is Obviously Gods Will kiln
runs cold. Quaint thoughts fly. Cryptic pain
but rightful mood. No pinko night
nor high comma snips this rainbow.

Drink rot stool agar for your mind
tricks. Urban patrols a good thing
too long coming, will carry us
in mushy arms of basilisk.

IX.

Marrow of union stalks this glass
circus, and sanguinary waltz.
Paint it with your last indigo
and know what is taught by glum myrrh.

Nor camps nor avail not myrrh
callings in a stark waxwork kiln.
Starry wisdom waits a strict pain
dulthood moly along world mind.

Abstract lights and stall immur us,
running in glamour’s indigo.
Marrow of no tomorrow; thing
is, you find but a husky night

facts, fnords. Widowshins-dug rainbow
is mokita in our first glass.
Pounamu paths cross basilisk
crisp whisking cola umgang waltz.

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