orthodox delineations of language,
undercuts ragged morning hills,
broken bridges between endless
peaks and lakes deep into nowhere
nothing is beautiful here.
once they watched in wonder
as the german peacekeeper
screamed his harshest tongue,
stubborn silence of prison-
speak loosened, and then
the americans leaned on their guns
watched the progression with
it is nice to know nothing changes.
they do not blend in
they stand out
they listen to rock music
it reminds them of the desert,
and the complexity shattered in
sound, where the ground shifts,
here, it's said
there will be no
falcons grasp at the crumbling scree and lift off to the height of alpine sky
while in the fields the lambs are killed for easter.
the sergeant finishes his patrol.
he writes his mother.
maybe he will learn some other history, he says to himself,
when he comes home.
he sits in
stares at the lesson
played in rote
doesn't take notes
watches the girls
fix their hair,
lean their elbows on
bite their pens
any dream comes crying, he sends it on
home sends it on to that small new place
that never meant all that much to him, no
promise at all.