Thinking of the war
– a city mist
silver, sodden, blown,
the glow of streetlights,
all the buildings shown
as though through lint,
each room silent and intent,
no light, no lamps,
new weather
pressing on the pane –
well, it made me think of you
again, in France, in 1917 –
the stream you walked to
in a dream, heaving
and coiling into the abyss
where you lost your friend,
then lost yourself
under grieving aspens.
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