The Eighth Year

An eighth year dragged throughout 
the country

two thousand dog tags bristling still
the wound open below the water line

the rubble of our pyramids
(their shadows remain standing somehow)

the rubble rolls around in the gut
sharp pain in the pit of the stomach

but yet we have to grin and bear it
the hopeless screams the burning pain

the jumpers in mid-air
on their way here     always     always