Broken mouth, too. Broken vocabulary.
Tomorrow when I speak it will be my heart whistling
through a hole that opens in my throat, a song I heard
in a country cemetery where the dead of war rose up
as little American flags. All cloth, no stick, top-heavy.
They looked like seagulls wobbling by a dumpster far from water,
flapping in a language only they could understand,
wondering what exactly the deal is with the wind.