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.