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Low sun slants over monitor onto men crawling through mud on their bellies, malarial, cockpits of smoke, legs broken, kite in the mud, two kills already, smattering of shells in the treeline, death have faced: Grant at Vicksburg, Wellington at Talavara a paper warrior watches warily from the corner of my bookshelf Hand-me-down template of a grandfather origami into intricate folds dotted lines even-up, chest-out, fly straight and true, an avatar to a funeral in berlin, the face of battle come home on your shield or with it anything but a male nurse's white uniform with it's green lapels and fob-watch. The warrior steels himself for death by scissors a loose pile, fern-spike on my floor a transit camp to MIND away from mind a shedding this autumnal day hard cold twigs, bare branches kind earth breeding hawthorn for the spring so once we hammered stakes together in the earth so now I see his eyes peer over glasses slipped on his nose, his face screwed up in thought strong arms heft the bodies. -- http://www.badstep.net/ http://www.cb1poetry.org.uk/