(Mental note:) To remember, on some soggy distant morn
This peering over moss, together bent
And an olive tendril in your gentle hand
These autumn days flee into the bluing sky
Like bubbles from the hands of laughing children,
Their coruscation bursting in our grasp.
Closeted in darkness deep
While tiny families mourn and weep
Death purrs upon a quilt, asleep.
At Bennett Place, Durham, N.C.
Men died by myriads, then on this spot
Quit dying. I would not call it peace,
But on this autumn grass, still stained
With unseen blood of wishful thinkers,
We shed our coats and turn cartwheels
In sense and innocence. Because we can.