The aged house with its fire places of fractured stone,
dehydrated front porch, and clay-mountain meadows.
Its orchards, gardens, and barns--where Rose climbs the loft
to shun the switch. Hiding and reading, reading and hiding.
The aged farm house, where Rose and Celeste
create plays, stories, songs, and skits
to share with rag dolls, and yesterday’s orange peels.
Imagination reels, Rose slides above the hilltop,
over field and rainbow, landing in a tree swing, singing.
August winds blow, rainbow and swing.
Hair floats Flaxen— from rainbow her eyes borrow blue.
Two fronts loom behind the backdrop.
War prisoners help papa plow.
Niedliches kleines Mädchen, blondes Haar und blaue Augen,
smiling adorations, aimed at the sweet, yellow Rose.
Evening comes and the older one, Wini,
picnics by Lake Sophistication, feeling The Magoo.
Pure flesh softens in folds around an American soldier,
Glamour boy promises, 'I’ll be home soon'.
Outside the San Jose clip joint, the Modock drugs-up, before
Hiroshima skylines remind him of pain, of killing.
A fetish, the opiate fruit, picked from the islands black market,
help him monopolize meaning, Balls-up, he fosters his task.
Somewhere a nun lies prostrate,
Abraham cries freedom,
A Muslim packs,
Buddha sits.
All are awaiting the radio broadcast to hear, new survivals.
Their bodies fail them.
Poets fail them.
Souls cry,
where are you shining deity.
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