at the top of a hill,

peasants run to the bottom with

guns popping up from

their hands and streaming into

stars and then into banners,

falling draping the world with

peaceful slogans; words about

borscht and bombs and brothers

and Bolivia, where the oldest went

to die and the youngest went

to resurrect him.  They transform

gravity together, shifting the earth

away from the hills, letting

bullets stay stray, bright and voluminous.

 

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