Monday, December 21, 2009

War Dead In December


God came near to men
And was surprised.
With downward hand and word
to acquaintance and putting
On those metal glasses good
For something other than distraction
Brushed off and broken, lying in the entrance
All the time flying swearing and scratching
Toward perfection with bulging heart
And little time for resurrection
Waiting, waiting for some indication
That salt and soul came off the table
And lighted lightly in hope, coming forward.

Eternally falling
You silly, dusty chanter
Jewman in death you saw the beaming
The shopfronts laying in beauty
Clogged with fingers joyful
Streaming summer now forgotten
The clothes of winter made
Of cold and scorn,
Worn out but not yet paid for.
A frowned hand rests upon your trouser
Beyond the office a deep long night
Looked out on with various eyes.
Against these rocks blind we wander.

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