I Caesar could have been my father. I am Roman: each holiday I stand my flag in the corner, Shelter a candle between gusts of wind. Our general grows fat from killing; I run to the bathroom Hand to my mouth. Lights out, sweetheart: lights and candles. II I'm watching the game. Where is your hand? You march forward in straight lines And keep the horses fed. Pawns cross, bishops kneel, My legs shake under the table. God, I love it: The abstract war, The blood on my fingertips.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com