Even in that place of final exile
among tombs, and mechanical inscriptions,
each leaf is a different green,
flower of a different kind
of red and yellow; also each ripe fruit
tumult of a really different seed
there, in that place.

Outside in the traffic
between the city's indifferent wheels and feet,
amid a hatred of trees,
the phalloid needles of sewing machines
have sown a new drill. The sleeves
of uniforms droop
like the wet feathers of a crow's wing
over a secret carrion. Girls unbreasted,
wear guns like earrings. Boys ungamed,
grip them like tickets. The spree
is a wake. Admission is free.

Martin Carter

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/playing-militia/