It is no mistake
that we start out with a cry
to suck up the whole tragedy of life
with which our lungs inflate,
eyes clenched against the blinding light
framing an unknown future with rage.
The father is frightened,
the unexploded bomb in his arms
connecting a fuse to his sandbagged heart
that beats to burst through
a thin veneer of sanity.
And we are surprised
by murderous release and rapacious desire
by the pleasure of walls tumbling down
by the pain of touch on scorched skin.
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