On the Reburial of a Second Lieutenant

I drank a beer
and opened against myself with the king’s bishop
because the night was a virgin
and he was no hero.
He was a duty to be done.
The beer
and his name and number in my hand
I led him to the ranks
but there was a thing
besides his strange attention
his hair uncommonly blonde
his unred lips
his eyeballs colorless and cool
about him.
What knowledge comes with crickets
to such a head
or visions sit inside these skinless grapes?

Though flecks of words still lay upon his lips
this unglad lazarus would not make me an answer.
He learned well the articles of war
and having properly given his name and number
he answers me again with strict attention.

I place the chessboard on the door before him
and make his move
I beat him three times in a row.

Now the night is an old woman
and he is gone.
In seven hours his possible wife will cry
his most probable daughter will be afraid

then he will lie in lines of perpetual care
knowing or not what dogs and flags are passing
that on one silent hour I kissed his face

knowing or not that I also
not having cried
have cared
that the bishop in his hand must outlast him.