magnets

hundreds of them, hundreds of thousands, even, the sight--all of them, white soldiers lined up between the hills, twirling their talons, hundreds of thousands, of, talons, spinning bayonets in the wind, hundreds of thousands of them, lined, up, between the hills, stretching out to the horizon: hypnotizing on the drive out, disgusting on the drive back, the sun, beating through our windows, ants, squirming, under a magnifying glass, charring, caring, carrying, full bottles in--empty bottles out, the springs all night, were hot, and loud, full of shouting and conversations that made us, sick, leaned against the wall, swallowing glass after, glass, of wine, wondering "how much before a man drowns?" in the milky water, that barely came up, to our shoulders--we're so obviously not like that, but, we can fake it until fake is real, and we do, believing in sunshine and broad blue skies that never change, at the bottom of the mountain, spitting ash into a glass bowl, the first thought every morning, hot again and the last, thought of the evening--not home--not here--barely, even, a house on a hill, damn the tans, the leisure, and the space, damn the winding sunset, we left magnets back at home, and, filled, our, pockets, with, iron.