as I pitched my novel to a rat

my brother had gone to war, and our intangibles
were felt like bricks.
the air was the same, but he was gone
to some other grief that my mind had yet
to name, and i read his letters that came
tumbling from the front
with invisible blood. entrenched in his calligraphy
by a trembling hand in a barrack besieged overnight
by the green hate of men
with his last blood 
unfocused-

as I pitched my novel to a rat.