Glasses clashed for kinship,

but I suppose she was used to war.

She sat alone in a leather chair

in the far back.

Her back was flat and diagonal.

I wondered if her mind was, too.

Black beams darted from her eyelids.

I wondered if her sun was dark, too.

How interesting a white blouse

and brown hair could be.

Her fingers wrapped around a pen,

nearly aroused.


She was delving into something,

some work of fiction,

or science.

God, how I wondered.

Every time the ink hit the paper

she was taking arms against the world.

Her world.

What could her world be like?

I wanted to know. Everything.

Beer can splash and vodka can make you forget,

but maybe there’s so much more

to artificial joy.

Maybe there’s an art in war.


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