The war's saw-toothed shadow wads
itself up as it snows again, throws
itself almost out, but for the oblivion
white means to say in its honest moments.
The inevitable comparisons with milk
and that other product of pulled udders,
pearls

and the breath of the dead (war
says hi!), uncrumple like beloved bills
slapped to a drugstore counter in exchange
for Fleet enema. The old men so happy

to watch youth burn up the underbrush
on new territory like to keep things
to themselves. If the generals had it
their way, it would snow long and deep;
drifts of sudden economy to lighten the trenches

of the dead and their secrets.

2003/02/27 07:28:42


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ARCADIA: long poem serialized in the muse apprentice guild: http://www.muse-apprentice-guild.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html


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