I Demure

afraid of the violence,
the runoff from the war,
the fact that nothing
would ever be good enough
to survive.  Bullets from
nowhere, planes like crows,
cawing, strafing, diving into
more soul than flesh, more
tomorrow than today.
In the rain, the bodies risen
rot, a riot of desecration,
a murder of bullets and
philosophy.  Madmen,
madmen load the guns,
aim them, chose the
targets.  And when they fall,
madmen bury them,
obliterate.  History is a
story, a mumble of reasons
why what happened must
have happened, why the
deaths, the reconstructions
meant a great victory, a
righting of wrongs  History is
a window, a chair, rain slanted
and the imagination of empty
days, a raised finger, the many
and the many with few choices.