Reverse Seeing.
A fox ran across your path, pure totem.
You would never see it again, likewise the loved one.
You stared hard into the rusty aftermath,
but things kept coming through the panel of death.
Doves took off outside the window, click, click, click,
click, gosh, their wings needed oiling.
Then no more them.
You want to be like your dead friend, you are like her.
Writing is dying.
But the war was not about borders, it was about surrender.