Books shower our lawn;
drawings of soldiers,
blood dotted as dice,
dropping from battlements
staggered by cannon,
have blown haphazard
about the bushes.
Pennies tip meanly
from the money-box.
Ice-cream, a week’s comics,
exist away from war.
One flashed coin
falls apart; is tossed,
spin heads, spin tails,
by the chancy king
of a world of books,
or grass, or blood.
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