Years, days, and moments before
now beading on top of the ground,

Blood which flowed on the inside of blood,
before it was stopped short, dried in ovens and ovens.

Like a caged bird awaiting its release,
checking the door,

It falls down and dies then gets up and flies
to a tree where it will be killed again and again.

Blood is too big for boys who salute it on a flagpole.
It blows in the breeze for awhile, then returns down the pole and into the ground.

It mixes with dirt and insects and soil.

- - L. Van Warren © 1976