Fret

Not a breath.

Droplets in suspension
over grass.

Imagined shouts.
Gas boys. Gas!
Fumbling for masks
tatatatatat of guns
munitions
thwacking into waterlogged soil
ordinance
breaks bone
sears eyes
seals fates.

An eerie aftertaste of
barbed blood

and silence.

Not a breath.

Droplets in suspension
over fields
reflect the luminescent
rape
-seed flowers
choke the peaceful countryside
in freakish fog.

A fetid after smell like
boiled cabbage or beer.

Not a breath.

These blooms
more malevolent
than poppies.

Fumbling for inhaler
I know the yellow fog does not bring death
still

I imagine.

I cough.