Machete salutations sweat
The rims of blades.
Sparks sprinkle fire-spittle
On the confused breath of hostile fumes
Branded Death.

Brines grow on festered fringes
Dappled with pestle-prints of
Silence,
Yet Death is borne on yawning.

Death is at the border.
Bamboo rafts bow at the rampart,
Slain upon the oaths of Shibboleth,
Read between city-lips widened by
Intermittent rage.