Blood is red. They say napalm snarls yellow and crimson through the buckram palm leaves, but the fire is at my back. I am watching shadows funneled into a tube, war neat in a box, canned as concentrated juice. The soldiers march newsprint faces through landscape indecisive between black and white. Dots swarm the graph lines of the screen, pepper and salt clotting to grenades and rice in a monochrome entertainment of death. Could this ashed drama be wrenched out to the dimension of my hand? Listen. Someone is crying in the fire a day before my eyes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SURFACES AND MASKS; 4 by CLARENCE MAJOR THE SONG FOR COLIN by SARA TEASDALE IN JUNIOR YEAR by WILLIAM GRANT BARNEY THE LAST MAN: RECOGNITION by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE WAGGONER by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN MAXIMS FOR THE OLD HOUSE: THE PORCH by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |