Weathered concrete thrones
mark where men fell as they charged the plains,
sewing the soil with their bloody natron.
Desiccation is all the corn husk litters that followed the push
bore up from amongst the profusion of body bags
the cicadas left as they rose from where they had lain prone,
and rallied against the advancing Imperious Guard
to carry the day.
L’Homme Arme’—
he should have been feared.
Grey blades tilt the wind.
Silence is the lady’s dropping silk,
always in free fall around the watch face;
monumental reposing figurines on a Midwest chess board,
where brownish or weathered-square bishops offer last rites,
but those soldiers need no such intervention for their souls.
They rose, and their gravestones give thanks to the East and the dawn,
for giants fell here,
that windswept dust
could be a new sun.
Wind Farm Cemetery