No Place, like home

last year, the bullets stopped flying  
 long enough to stick my head out of the foxhole  
 and I seen her there, among the dead and wounded  
 ripping the tongues from both. She had a jar of brine  
 to keep them in, and as she filled her container  
 she sang a sonnet to the truths of war  
 
 I dreamt of her again today.  
 She was clothed.  
 I couldn't move my intrigue any closer  
 without inventing a new alloy, with biologic mechanisms  
 and build a ship that chants itself into tetrahedron  
 
 Next year, there is a hale storm, and ruby red slippers.  
 There is botany that is exploring its own potential right now  
 to make sure our picnic at Mt. Olympus, is exquisite