fallen apple by Barbara Maat

a scent of snow
wet grey wool of sky.
the disinterested sun pierces a splendid instant,
a single bullethole of radiance, shot
through the window pane, shot
through the dying day.
“thou shalt not kill” blares the preacher on the scarred red radio.
his fever cleans the barrel of my gun like fire.
from the doorway i count the secret graves,
their angry truths refuse surrender; bayonets
thrust up from the killing fields like cornstalks,
a defiant unison for every man cut down.
the dark hawks concur.
there is a scent of storm
a chilling kite on winter light
tomorrow there will be fallen apples
and snow will blanket the red, red ground.

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