Poems August Running

Fly Grey

until we open the windows
this summer and fall
and have the sun reach each part of the room
I don't know what the access routes would be
a rain wall to the ground
and the flower bed
bunches of color and leaf
green and a white border
trim
in a cubicle correcting grammer talking about birds in
another language, there they fly, in the grey 
for a few minutes, wondering where the other went
back to home and a quiet year after five
quiet years and a thankless depersonified note without the war
with a war
forgotten, soon
and surely forgotten in entirety
were we ahead of the decade then
notes given and received
nods and stares without any
familiarity there