Smoke stones open to the flame of a narrow gun,
Cried eyes closing in the blast of a falling sun,
Antietam needles bristle in the step of a racoon's paw,
Fading graying rustle, the last of the uniform's law.
Determined bullets tire, dragged down by gravity's snare.
Cities pyred entire, lit at the general's declare.
They fell, they fall, they fall again,
Salted with lottery's rain.
I kneel, I call, I call again
Lock the blood back in the stone again.
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