The Name of Poem;
Thanks.
Yosef Komonica
Thanks to the tree
Between me and a sniper's bullet.
I don't know what made the grass
A few seconds before the Viet Cong
Picked up his silenced rifle.
Some voice always followed.
Tell me which foot?
First put down.
Thanks for turning Ricochet
Against this chaos of Syria.
I was back in San Francisco.
Wrapped in the wild colors of a woman,
Call some dark birds for love.
are scattered by the light of day.
When my hands reached up
And pulled a branch
Thank you from my face
For a fuzzy white flower
who pointed to the shining metal.
It explains how to break it.
like mist on the grass,
As we played something deadly.
A game of blind gods.
What gave me the position of king?
Shaking on the same thread.
tied to the farmer's door,
Holding the day together
Like a fingerless guitar string,
is beyond me. Maybe the hills
Tired and a little bent in the heat.
Again, thanks for the compliments
A grenade was thrown at my feet.
Outside Cho Lai. I still
falling through his silence.
I don't know why he is afraid.
The sun touched the spear,
But I know this.
stood among those lost trees.
And only moved when I moved.
End.
