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They shoot airmen, sometimes

by James Walton (follow)
My neighbour died alone
in a settler’s cottage on a hill
with a dam that wouldn’t repair
he went after her
although for a while
she moved the keys around
with a silence that wouldn’t mend
not that he minded
her grace in easy tides
had always knocked him sideways
bent him like a conjurer’s hoop
straightened a smile
when he remembered landing
their courtesy of not shooting him
for all the sins that dropped
on the Germany runs
she cut the prison wire off
on the dance floor in Echuca
laughing holding rubbing her feet
captivity got him rich
making love all the way south
to range strung returned soldier farms
bridled away in hills so fantasy green
that photos singed
last sighted as a pride
collecting wood from the boundary
waving hello and goodbye
we should have talked more
but those gibbous moments
rattle like coins in a head
now left to loosely wonder
if anyone dies alone, really

Chagall- Stravinsky's firebird marquette- courtesy- I require Art
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