physician of the soul

A river spoke to me in a dream, I had to tell it
the red moon's reflection was not a wound. Soldiers
do not want hear about the mechanics of laparotomy,
Quenu knew battle had changed, death hissed at his
paradigm, we had mobile units, early evacuations, transport
for the wounded-the winds of propaganda could not slow down
echoes of standardization.   

The wind went blind one night, I was woken by it hands
examining my stomach for a wound, my needle's eye is
blind and the end is bent, Quenu refused the wings that
heaven sent, he dug and his spade met and touched that
of the angel digging the war out of false consciousness.
I am a surgeon not a visionary but I can see the lost vision
of my patients turning into ambulances.

I have become an agent, a physician of the soul-I have
to remain pure as the many wives of war tempt me with
despair and ravage me with rage, one wife whispers "emotive
psychosis", another "obnubliation".  A strange inversion grips me 
when I listen to patients, like mountains are climbing me and
seas are drowning in me. The winter has psychosis, it's winds
are linear, soldiers tell me of there synesthesia-they hear snow
flakes scream and  blood sing.