for the soldier, ladybugs are dots of red
they are the red that drips from arteries
they are the red of a premature sunrise

sandwiches are foreign, as are salt and peppers and oranges
these things burned like dry grass
heaving heavy isolation as they died out

ladybugs remind him of places far away
he used to find them hiding in leafy plants in his backyard
now he hides from those haunting red dots

they burned like dead grass at the end of summer
they died out…not away
dying away leaves some hope of coming back again

for the soldier, things die out
sifting into black, empty holes better not to remember
ladybugs don’t always bring good luck