exposure

• Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us...
• Far off like a dull rumour of some other war. / What are we doing here?
• Slowly our ghosts drag home: ... We turn back to our dying.
• Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, / But nothing happens.
• sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. / Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow,