Man at a window
His forehead resting on his forearm
Morning autumn sky leaking blue, pink
Trails of the high planes, silver lines
A perfect picture has been scored
With a knife
There are men in those machines
Where are they going?
What is it like for them, precisely?
The curled leaves on the grass, dead
Despite the effort of the dew,
Conjure fallen birds who can never unfold
Never prosper, being beyond fear and fall.
His fear is to turn around, face the life
Of the house, the war
Still in him allowed to pan back
Pushing him on, weaponless
James Bullion 14th October 2012
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