when he came home from the trenches,
back in eighteen, after she had
rolled miles of bandages, the
carnations were mixed, unluckily,
red and white, in a large glass upon the windowsill
petals blotted the pages they
were pressed between, the
black and white type repeated endlessly
quinine tablets and rum and
white sheets for the windows
the eyes above the white-masks,
beds neatly rowed, taking
a fresh air cure
while others kneeled upon the stony steps of
Holy Cross, desperate words
winging heavenwards
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