I imagine it to be calf-skin
with horse-hair stragglers
like the sparse trimmings
of a reshaped beard.
I see bowed out splatters
of slow green river water,
the grease from a plate
of meat and beans.
I taste dark coffee--
the earth in a cup
and inside shoes
and between every subtle
ridge in a thumb pad.
I feel a father’s hand on
the hilt of a sword that rattles
a little when the warm-bloods
come through the humming heat
and the cry of retreat, retreat,
is not enough to stymie
the flow of blood
that stains the sun-grass red.
It is always the boys who pay
and thus it will always be.
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