The clouds in war paintings:
never impartial enough to be
believed. Often, battle cries
vault into the heavens,
the commandant catapults a glance
to the bruised sky above his enemy’s
twisted crown
and already the war has been won.
Soldiers peddle against soft mud,
bayonet the enemy. Bayonet
double-edged.
These forces captured
on canvas, of men and meteorology;
leaning in blue to crimson
breathing in son to son.
Thunderhead compatriots
marching off to war, rumbling
nimbus standard issue boots.
To think they are so close.
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