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Mine
A red-feathered bird on a fence post;
and behind the barbed garland
a petrified shoe: mouth agape,
tongue lolling. The wind is a cripple
who peers beneath tufts of white grasses
and herds invisible sheep
toward this patch of planted field
into which we have already wandered -
both of us prone to explode.

Now do what again? Follow
the tank treads; avoid disturbed earth.
The concertina hums her impersonal dirge.
"If you blow your leg off," you say,
in your charming, rheumy-eyed way,
"I'll leave you. I'm supposed to."

You must have learned this on your course:
minimize the loss, drop to your belly
and crawl toward the gate.
I take the first forced step away and wait.