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adam home from the wars
sean 1
yes, when the orchard's dolled up in pastels
and the finches 2 cursive across the sky
and the big moon 3 like a tit o'er the meadows,
i'll trade in my glock for a pocket of dew.
and the wars will stop. and everyone
will do the dishes. and the lion
will sweetly go down on the lamb
as among the rifle casings the brambles
eject -- at last -- their thorns.
once, on a bench by the river, the little ducks
seemed bread-sated and happy. i had my girl.
it was the great past tense and everything was lovely.
then, on the breeze: burnt spruce or a musk
of black powder and blood from a further field.
i made for my wound a poultice of wounds,
and the ones i wounded made poultices too.
we've come here this evening to give them to you.
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