… A forgotten poet of the people | Robert Chandler | The Critic Magazine. (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)
Tomorrow, he said, is fixed for death’s birthday party […]
At 0-four hundred hours when the night grows sickly
And the sand slips under your boots like a child’s nightmare,
Clumsy and humped and shrunken inside your clothes
You will shamble up the shore to give him your greeting.
This reminds me of what I was once told by a friend who was a veteran of 25 bombing missions in World War II.
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