Wounded Veils

Some question? 

It always haunted me. 

In combat posture, 

why would I become a child? 

To cry and learn a laugh? 

Karma? 

A green memory, 

of the shade of bougainvillea's 

arbor, entwining the wooden pain 

of my frame, to know 

the faith of water, improvidently 

creating the false interiors. 

How far was the home? 

You want to toe the 

peace of garden, blue sky 

and dark night.