Crossing that Canadian line on a visitor pass,
that stretch across the border divide,
that makes a torn war wound, torn man free.
It made my feet new away from red cinder land on fresh grass.
Back home the sirens of war keep sounding off,
like common masturbation from one decade to another.
All us wearing new/old bloodstains,
poetry images of erections coming up, WW2, a real war.
My dirty hands, on your hands, our memories shared red, white and blue justified, hell.
Who does not have memories, bad cinder charcoal smoke screen in the dark flame?
September comes early in Canada-October in the USA.
Leaves fall early swirling in touchdowns both sides of the border.
September north, but at least the bullets cease.
Cast a poem South, you likely die in Vietnam or come back wounded.
Cast a poem North, you likely suffers mental illness but come back on pills.
Here comes again, thunder, in the rain, stroke by lightening,
war bore crossing a border divide.