on a street called the Rue de Guerre

the author of strokes
through the scene depicted
from the window of a certain plain battle

and me in my
white shirt and kept home
school and work
to supper

when away
in the mud
images of war
then the expression
in canvas time
that better year
that what better years bring

better years
every day when
he entered
his works
a droning right wrist
his left hand grasping smoke
always leaning forward
toward his bullet

and me
off to find my own
then in a flash
a few inserts of steel
with a brief home sending
and you’re back
pushing him
your eyes not following
but knowing where
are the better-known things

on the last day
he asked to see
in the purest clamors
the became
of the what has become
and nodded his head
until finally

today if you walk past that plain battle
under sheets of days changed into difference
an exhibition no one would know

the fellow soldiers’ arms and eyes
circling in a certain plain battle
in a plain house
on a street
called the Rue de Guerre

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