What could be more provisional than an immediate response?
Yes. No. Maybe.
Disassociating each thought behind each answer.
This daily march along our flesh-caked trench inspires me to poke my head out above the thighs.
Nothing but silence on the battlefield since our arrival and I’m in need of sound sustenance.
The symphony of explosion.
Chorus of teeth rattling like glass into pillows.
One little peek is all I need.
Is there anyone over there?
Separated by a field of uncertainty, pinioned in our positions, hands gripping weapon.
Let us leverage the silence with an echoing pronouncement of our discontent.
Our content has deteriorated.
I blame the silence.
As I crawl along the trench, motion exaggerated.
The bones of my body jut outward. Up and over. Oblong angles.
Can they see my tepid indifference crawling through the mud like a rodent, fur coat glistening, combat fatigue.
End the asymmetry.