He wasn’t himself, not anymore.
Whenever he joined the ranks, he got lost
In a demonstration of blue.
And war wasn’t war like he thought it’d be.
Not endless struggle with only a moment to breathe
But tired stretches of nothing
And then flickers of light and sound
And then the sprayings of a friend
Who caught one in the chest
Who sunk into the mud
At different depths, depending
On all they stuffed away
In their bags. In their rifles.
In their hearts. In their throats.
And where were they taking themselves, anyway?
Into waves of grey which sought at any cost
to pass where his brothers had come?
Or back into the earth from which each
and all of them came?
About the Poet
Harold Strauss was once a geologist. These days, he enjoys the long days of retirement with his husband and keeps his mind busy with books and poetry.