Sean Singer

Issue No. 11 • December 2013

Syria since 2011

First the pineapple froth
In the lungs. A murmur
Beneath a layer of quartz means
Blood fangs suck uterus flesh
Into his darkling pit. Juniper ashes
Fume from a metal rod.

“Drive fast,” says the tour guide next.
“Along the 200 meter stretch
Ahead of you because there are snipers.”

Syria is someplace new. We are
Somewhere new, too, and we promise
The salmon-colored thing hanging
From the streetlight pumps breath,

Or pimps death. Take my hand, honey,
Along the spout of the thistle. This world

Was built by incompetents
Without knowing
If the future exists.