I'll read one last serious poem about--
a short one about the Civil War, about the Battles
of the Wilderness, I should say.
"Notes Toward a Spring Offensive."
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 would 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.