Years, Days and Moments

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