A tank loaded with washing machines wrappedlike Rodins looted from disemboweled apartments,

on its way to join mercenaries who’ll half-dig gravesin a half-frozen pine forest before taking a nap,

passes a cruise missile lodged nose-firstin the road and painted “for the kids,”

passes a bullet-sprayed car and soup kitchenworker who will change his walking route

trailed by a campaign of dogs, past gougesin the square where a kid in clown makeup dances

a figure eight, for whom terror clingsto the sound of tambourines, to balaclavas,

to the scent of a busted tomato, leaking.