N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 0

DAVID COPE

Dawn

rush hour wreckage smoke & fumes below:

flashing ambulance screams away. beyond,

concrete angels blow trumpets in all directions—

pale moon on eastern horizon. here, orchids cascade

above crown of thorns’ red lips. paper on the desk:

25 Afghan women & children incinerated—

“a mistake.”