HOW EVEN I LOST THE WAR
I never killed a thing. Except a dream. I never
spit back any muck or gristle. Except bones.
There have always been bandits; now the world
allows them to shoot. Here's my heavy load : the
village I'm sleeping in has lost its name; some old
French burg or an indeterminate wedge. A tank
sits in the square - blistered and burned, with the
half of some dead German slumped out the open
top. Jeez-Louise, what a site! Or 'Quelle Spectacle!'
if you'd prefer. There's a loaf of bread on that femme's
mantle I'm just dying to steal as my own. Look at that!
Smoke darts slowly from her kitchen's lone stack.
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