Tipped up, pinkies out.
It is play—but how formal!
How normal it is
To sit here, Astroturf
Beneath our toes. It grows,
I think. Though slowly,
Rising from the field:
The smell of mud, and drums.
Blood runs to the sky.
Guns may kill, but scars
And stripes can only save
A dead man.
The weather’s fair today.
Here’s cotton for your ears;
A cloth, for the smell.
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