February 3, 2017 § 2 Comments

At Grace, heads bowed at the table,
they keep their eyes open,
hands knit, chins resting on them.

The lamp burns behind the colonel’s head.
He drops a little, starts, clears his throat,
leads the Amen.

Amen. The soup is brought up
and bread broken. There is good wine
of course, but no song

only conversation, well-informed
and ignorant, knowing the names of battles
but not who died in them.


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