War the War

War the war, the sorry edge of us, because we stacked nice clean plates for days, we were sure things when love broke across the headland, leaving conch shells in ditches, five fish slapping on the steps of the old town hall, it was winter, we were bonfires unattended, our bodies litigating, agreeing and writing it all down, the law of legs, the law of how we sleep, the law of shoulders killing me, and now we fold clothes without thinking my clothes your clothes and war the war o happy war what love we are so badly bitten in this long-term necessary chapel with all attendant relics, citronella candle, junior hacksaw, a box of miscellaneous wires, our headland way-way underwater, no one else beside us but ourselves beside ourselves.