WEBVTT

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I'll read one last
serious poem about--

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a short one about the Civil
War, about the Battles

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of the Wilderness, I should say.

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"Notes Toward a
Spring Offensive."

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I will begin again
in May, describing

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weather, how the wind swept up
the dust and pigeons suddenly.

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Then the rain began to
fall on this and that,

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the regular ablutions.

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The soldiers marched,
the cowards wept,

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and all were wetted down
and winded, crushed.

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Soldiers turn the dew to mud.

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Shivering uncontrollably
because the mild wind blew

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through wet fatigues,
they fell down

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in the mud, their pieces fouled,
and groveled in the wilderness,

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regardless.

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Some died, and how
I will not tell,

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since I would speak of weather.

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Afterwards the clouds were
stripped out of the sky.

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Palpably fresh, suckingly
sweet like bitten peaches,

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sparkling like oh, a
peeling tangerine, the air

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was warmed by light again,
and those who could rise

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rose like crushed chives
from the mud and stank

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and thought to dry.

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The cowards wept and
some got well again,

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profane with flowers,
all was well,

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and I have finished now in May.

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I have described one circle
of a day and those beneath it,

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but not why.

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