To The Soldier It’s Always Glass
The bullet feels like it, no?
Cut in a war you didn’t want to fight.
She came, radiant as a sun you never
Never chose to see.
Brimming like a distant flame
On the cusp of a perfection distant;
One you never wanted, or did?
Clean-shaven, you, young too —
Who wouldn’t want you?
She saw you and thought:
“This is the man I want.”
Some would call it love,
Some believe such a thing exists.
For her, it was existence.
A corporeal thing, a body, a
Reality.
It would only take four years.
Destructive Anachronism 