Toy Soldiers on a Window-sill
For what is spoken of, in general, is Goethe’s Gehalt, the import of things in any kind of poem, As well as the images within. The scene Of my childhood is more than a scene represented
And may not survive long enough In the intellectual climate of our age, This childhood window-sill where so much Was tested. Yet not enough. Not adequate.
Soft metal soldiers of the Japanese armies That came from Aunt Teresa in Houston, An ambush heaven created by a paperback Of Justice Warren’s Kennedy Commission:
I tried not to look back. It was a paradox To be so absorbed in my own battles. I could not Withdraw my allegiance from inadequate truths, Nor would I betray my troops. The window-sill
Was a battleground of condensation; the strife In glass awaited clarification. Windows wept If an ambush was confirmed or a soldier came to grief: Such an enfilade of injury while the sirens slept!
And the strife behind me while I played – Rainy Singapore fell in the heavy gun smoke From my father’s cigarettes. I tried Not to breathe-in the surrenders he exhaled.
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