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THE WAR WOUND
- Wesleyan University Press
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THE WAR WOUND It wounded well—one time and A half: once with instant blood and again Reinfecting blackly, years later. Now all Is calm at the heel of my hand Where I grabbed, in a belliedin airplane, and caught the dark glass Offered once in a lifetime by The brittle tachometer. Moons by the thousands Have risen in all that time; I hold The healed half-moon of that night. I tell it to shine as still As it can in the temperate flesh That never since has balled into a fist, To hover on nylon guitar strings Like the folk-moon itself; I tell it to burn like a poison When my two children threaten themselves, Wall-walking, or off the deep end Of a county swimming pool, And with thousands of moons Coming over me year after year, I lie with it well under cover, The war of the millions, Through glass ground under Heel twenty-one years ago Concentrating its light on my hand, Small, but with world-fury. Buckdancer's Choice 223 ...