In Madrid with Picasso’s Guernica
sharp-tongued, afloat in the doorway,
the tongue-less will fringe and press closer.
we won’t detect— never expect the electric,
bulbous candle of eye— nor the sect of bodies
to follow. the before and after. the planes.
the cilia numbers. a tally of dashes—a sty
for human, horse, bull— which breaks us?
abreast, we couldn’t see digits. atone none
in the gray—black and white. as line and form, we’re prone
to think this always over. neutral and not. dislocated
limbus, geometric is war. is smoke?
is what a broken neck or sword?
footfalls in the frame. first, the rush, vibratile
over wails, then a candle through the door.