Poetry

The intersection 
of a third world market: 
An insurgent, and old man 
a woman, or a child 
broken under dawn; 
sloppy pools of 
bone and flesh. 
What they never saw 
will never see again 
under the terrible 
orange sun. 
  
  
And the machine guns 
continue to laugh 
day after day 
year after year, 
like background noise.