I will begin again in May, describing weather, how
the wind swept up the dust and pigeons suddenly. Then
the rain began to fall on this and that, the regular
ablutions. The soldiers marched, the cowards wept,
and all were wetted down and winded, crushed.
Soldiers turn the dew to mud. Shivering uncontrollably
because the mild wind blew through wet fatigues,
they fell down in the mud, their pieces fouled,
and groveled in the wilderness, regardless. Some died, and how
I will not tell, since I should speak of weather. Afterwards
the clouds were stripped out of the sky. Palpably fresh,
suckingly sweet like bitten peaches, sparkling like oh,
a peeling tangerine, the air was warmed by light again,
and those who could rise rose like crushed chives from the mud
and stank and thought to dry. The cowards wept
and some got well again, profane with flowers, all was well,
and I have finished now in May. I have described
one circle of a day and those beneath it, but not why.
Notes Toward a Spring Offensive
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