Forgive my country, bread.
Forgive how I, under your nose, live: 

how I, like the horse’s tongue,
speak, how I
in the smudge and fray of ribs
among the tilt and tat of thighs, breathe.

Forgive, life, how
crumpled
doily
your body was.
Forgive my country,
your armory, the bread of war.