SymphonyI dreamed of you last night.
I dreamed of your pale skin,
your clenched fists,
your wide, stunned eyes;
the perfect teeth lining your open mouth.
There was a man I knew, in the trenches,
who thought death was beautiful.
Saw Mozart in the massacres,
Desgas in the destruction.
Used to call the twisted faces of the dead
the ones Picasso never drew.
I think we pretended to be disgusted, but really
we were envious:
all we saw was horror.
I dreamed of you last night.
How you looked when I met you:
eyes I could finally see the whites of.
I don't remember their color.
My friend in the trenches posited
that to destroy is to create:
that to kill is a man's magnum opus,
his most masterful work.
If that's so, I suppose you were
And in my dream, I heard your cry,
like a horn solo;
saw the color leave your face,
like paint chased by water;
heard the crack of my gun,
saw the symphony of your blood
sprayed across the ground
in glorious carmine.