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At night I walk alone—
still thinking of gliding over rubbled streets
turning corners where nothing awaits
though belief remains that an enemy
is sitting on the roof top peering down
waiting for my feet to step over the curb
and his finger to detonate the littered bag
in a sewer drain, like it did for the snipers
and Ramon, whose life became a smoke stain
beneath Persian stars and dim lit streets,
against cob walls and decadent alleyways.
At night I grieve and walk with my dog—
who did not let me pierce vein or collapse
from too many pills, as war embodied my
heart. I think of them, the ones
who never said goodbye
who never told their children goodnight
who never kissed their wives
and whose families still cannot say
the word Iraq—
I think to myself alone in the woods—
where God transcends his presence through simple
call and folly of thrush and spotted fawn,
where emotion reveals itself next to a river’s tide
and pool in the pale brown foam drifting next to moss
I think as my wife and children walk before me—
Why did I live?
∞