(with apologies to Tomas Transtrommer)
The war goes in time, in tune
with lamentations dressed long, black, and slinky.
Its bones are white, its blood, sudden as color TV.
It appears without sign, a plummet from blue.
Man can shelter from whip of winter's sun,
can warmly loaf in the artifice of home.
But the drunk red river reads like a telephone book--
abandoned names froze permanently cold.
No one is promised a seat by the hearth,
though workers still work and farmers reap.
But warriors will be obeying still
the soft sound that brings down sleep.
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