Sometimes. Still. In the carnage
of Ukraine’s front lines
a soldier expels his beloved’s name
riding an explosive shock wave
or crawling across a plowed field.

The stone gargoyles of Europe
leave their edifices
and fly to Ukraine’s battlefield
to consume the dead
and take rectangular shapes.

At a critical moment one side
fails to notice that a dirty white sheet
flapping in the wind
means something entirely other than
a mud-splattered ghost.

You again, a soldier says
facing a school chum across the street
on the outskirts of Kharkiv.
He shouts, Take cover!
knowing mortar rounds are flying.

copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney