To Shim

where brook trout surface

in baritone river rains, 

where fox prey,

and jackals await

dressed in morning’s ballistics

as firing squads take aim.

‘neath The Moon Rabbit, 

cleared by crowds drunk with virtue, 

screaming for Śakra 

in final sighs of autumn’s jade dawn

I send this signal to you,

to share in our memories of saccharin-skin armor, my brave brother,

negotiating peace with toy soldiers,

playing dead from sticks and walnut hand grenades.

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