On the male understanding of devotion

I write this in the ninth year of the endless war: it is the XXVII February & third
consecutive day without sun.
This is what sinks in me: a millstone done with grinding
Inherited, self-annihilating traits of the failed tongue. The Saker, the Lanner &
the Barbary. Grouped in threes with obsolete, feminine endings. There is no
assuagement left in them
In me, there is assuagement. From nightfall’s rare descending angel, the hawk that
does not miss but identifies
& makes off with the children of whomsoever it pleases
But I shall be as a shield to you & keep the shadow from off your back

On the male understanding of devotion

I write this in the ninth year of the endless war: it is the XXVII February & third
consecutive day without sun.
This is what sinks in me: a millstone done with grinding
Inherited, self-annihilating traits of the failed tongue. The Saker, the Lanner &
the Barbary. Grouped in threes with obsolete, feminine endings. There is no
assuagement left in them
In me, there is assuagement. From nightfall’s rare descending angel, the hawk that
does not miss but identifies
& makes off with the children of whomsoever it pleases
But I shall be as a shield to you & keep the shadow from off your back