My uncle, shot at Paris, willed to God

My uncle, shot at Paris, willed to God,
his plane in pieces to the ground.
Who asks can it be helped my uncle in his plane?
The procession there from our house
to the green cliffs he lives in which the air around,
the empty hills to look about,
soon am I and in my uncle with his plane,
a man and dudes to death with me.
Not to death that we are bonded to,
but free, to death, alive, where I have been.

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One response to “My uncle, shot at Paris, willed to God

  1. Pingback: Book 2 - Table of Contents « New American Writing

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