Somehow I ended up on a battlefield, Ypres I suppose,
though the year is now two thousand fourteen.
Like firecrackers or gunpowder,
at rare occasions in the night
a long forgotten bomb smiles at the air
and gives up the ghost.
Which explosions are the good ones?
Surely the ones that kill the other men, that fire
is the fire of god.
Asking one question asks another, it is said,
the opposite,
but that is a question that I cannot answer
without other questions.
God will not come in fury from the earth for me,
God wants me to eat olives and grow old.
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