Through sazanami bubbles I have walked,
where founders of a once forgotten rock
took baby steps upon familiar land,
possessed by one great prime to start again.
Great men of war lay silently and bloat,
though not enough the mammal to promote
assistance from an urgent rescue team
to shift the sand and set them sailing free.
We poke the dead with any nearby stick
and giggle as their corpses pop or hiss,
yet shed a proper tear for those who earn
the empathies our fathers let us learn.
I want to scream and start again from prose.
Alas, I cannot shake these rhyming clothes.
Brad Frederiksen 2009