(For H. B.)
Crossing the bog, we stood together
At the middle on a tremoring hummock,
And, close, he said, “A voice compels me
To say this.” And he said what he knew.
“There, the gunner stood, and there
The other, caught in a gnarl of willow.”
A light gust of wind keened in the bracken.
Cloudships dragged their anchors,
Close-reefed armadas of shadow.
We felt the groundswell at our feet.
Afterwards, he lifted his head and stood,
Eyes leveling the cattails, looking
To where a red-winged blackbird tilted
On a reed almost down to the face
Of black water. I might have said
The epaulet had all the aspect
Of a man’s red wound. But to what purpose?
The county responds only to its own measures:
Those motions of brown mind not even
Raven and cochineal can enliven.
We moved on together.
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