In this mortal frame of mine which consists of a hundred bones and
nine orifices, there is something, and this something can be called,
for lack of a better name, a windswept spirit . . .
​​​​​​             —Bashō

And thus the hundred bones of my body plus various
​​​​​​            apertures plus that thing I don’t know yet
to call spirit are all aquake with joyous awe at the shriek of
​​​​​​            the fighter planes that from their base
at Port Newark swoop in their practice runs so low over our
​​​​​​            building that the walls tremble.

Wildcats, they’re called, Thunderbolts or Corsairs, and they’re
​​​​​​            practicing strafing, which in war means
your machine guns are going like mad as you dive down on
​​​​​​            the enemy soldiers and other bad people,
Nips, Krauts, trying to run out from under your wings, your
​​​​​​            bullet-pops leaping after their feet.

It’s a new word for us, strafing. We learn others, too: blockbusters,
​​​​​​            for instance, which means
bombs that smash down your whole block: not our block—
​​​​​​            some Nip block, or Nazi,
some grey block in the newsreel. B-24 is the number of my
​​​​​​            favorite bomber: the Liberator.

My best fighter: Lightning. The other kind of lightning once
​​​​​​            crashed on an eave of our building
and my mother cried out and swept me up in her arms: The
​​​​​​            war is here, she must have thought,
the war has found me. All her life I think she was thinking: The war is here, the
​​​​​​            war has found me.

Some words we don’t know yet—gas chamber, napalm—|
​​​​​​            children our age, in nineteen forty-four, say,
say Arnold Lilien and I, who’re discussing how we’ll torture
​​​​​​            our treacherous enemy-friends
who’ve gone off to a ball game without us. They’re like
​​​​​​            enemies, Japs or Nazis: so of course torture.

Do children of all places and times speak so passionately and
​​​​​​            knowledgeably about torture?
Our imaginations are small, though, Arnold’s and mine. Tear
​​​​​​            out their nails. Burn their eyes.
Drive icicles in their ear so there’s no evidence of your having
​​​​​​            done it except they’re dead.

Then it was Arnold who died. He was a doctor; out west; he
​​​​​​            learned to fly “Piper Cubs,”
and flew out to help Navajo women have babies. He’d
​​​​​​            become a good man. Then he was dead.
But right now: victory! V-Day! Clouds like giant ice creams
​​​​​​            over the evil Japanese empire.

Cities are burning. Some Japanese cities aren’t even there. The
​​​​​​            war is here! The war has found me!
Japanese poets come later. We don’t know we need them
​​​​​​            until they’re already buffing the lens.
Bashō. Issa. Buson. Especially Bashō: ah, that windswept spirit;
​​​​​​            ah, that hardly there frog.

Atom bomb, though: Bashō as shadow burned into asphalt.
​​​​​​            House torn by mad burning wind.
Poets in coats of straw, burning. What is our flaw, we human
​​​​​​            beings? What is our error?
Spikes in your tushy, ice in your brain. That frog invisibly
​​​​​​            waiting forever to make its leap.