A Calendrical Model of Warfare

Don’t confuse loss with regret.
They’re barely on speaking terms.
If you have a healthy hand

And you find yourself in sun,
Place a palm on the surface
Of your dashboard or a chair

Or a lichen-crusted rock.
There. Loss is ordinary
On a world lit by a star,

A living world of seasons,
Weather, shadows, night and day.
Leave regret for those without

Any way to know the world
Not foretold by calendars.
Defeat is not departure.