Wednesday, October 8, 2014

The War to End All Wars

Indulgent and part here, I sound feebly
the ocean for deep chords I fathom in the strings,
the solo of the one sonar of the sound bar,
the sand bar, from where my eyes squint,
but all things are of a meaning and have webs,
tentacles of no piercing nature but floating loosely
on the waters where the Dauntless torched decks
and the Avenger avenged the avengers in the Central Pacific.

So, too, are the starlings that startle the trees
in the peace force of a deciduous morning when the banker,
oblivious to curtailment, counts booty, not wars,
and all dying is a product of reduction, when the course
of a nation is courseless and drained from the insatiable nod
of a once wing mate in a turbulent nothing.

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