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Stationed beneath these granite lines, the boys

who never loitered man eternity.


Dead to all swagger, dropped by hawkish ploys
they garrison in dull fraternity.
My car's late-model, well-appointed, I
inventory limbs, then apply the gas
distancing evergreen recruits at ease. Why
one before the next, I slow to ask.
No order comes, except some die too soon,
called up from shortened tour, some vagary
or happenstancea fated, front platoon.
Names in a hat pervade democracy.
I am not worthy. Neither am I blessed.
Numbers are up. There is no final test.
From the book Seperntrope by Norman Ball

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