Squinting into white-x'd windows
We circled the house, deciding, finally
That we liked the cellar best,
A dark mushroomy hole that gave
Back a ghostly echo
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when we yelled and whistled in
The eyeless windows.
On three sides the loam
was pushed against the house
In long, surf-like crests.
On the back side, two mine-made holes were blown
Just large enough to hide my son
As he swept the dusty field
With his machine gun.
He called to me from the hole he warred in:
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Penn Fires Stiegman; No Successor Named
