Sowing cemeteries never out of style,
Mounds of people dot this forest.
All the while,
This war,
All around the war, war,
Wears down fear
             to the next normal.

A run around
Behind the empty hotel
In barely a village
Smelling of snails feasting
In ponds of the field people:

A blond boy fishes.
Another me.
I rush past him
For the health of it.

I now pass the stone,
Concrete cover of the grave
Of some literal Comrade
From some village in the East
Unable as the soil
To speak words to
Other people of the word.

Unknown and soldier next
To each other in Polish,
           of course.

Decorated in the recent
past November. 1st, 2nd,
3rd generations of care,
Now with plastic flowers
And a plastic candle lantern,
Still out in July, of the kind
On sale everywhere. And
Which despite Halloween,
Set cemeteries ablaze
Whenabouts All Souls Day.

The communing with ancestors –
Always the rage,

Always the rage.

Back to our Comrade
Now stone, earth and beast.

The sand soaked up
Beyond what the trees
             and bugs took.

Honored as one
Of this village, Delicious.
In Polish, of course.

Under the sky
NATO patrols scour
The border. Ready
To plant his
            uncle’s,
                        his brother’s,
                                        his sister’s
people.

So nearby-ish,
So close-ish,
So anguish,

           That sad.