By which I mean, mostly, that we gaze upon the boy

& all of our fallen return to us, their wounds unhealed

& howling. I want to say something about indeterminacy

here. Decomposition as a kind of writing.

How a body never vanishes really,

merely sketches the landscape anew underground,

foxgloves & marigolds jutting like scimitars

from the field’s flesh, precious weapons

of those thought to be rot already, soil’s song,

long gone past the grave. For who says

the dead don’t think, don’t shake

the weight of marrow & slip, quiet as fire, back

into whatever partition binds this life

to its grand, black Epilogue? Last night,

I imagined every officer’s gun

gathered & stuffed in a bombproof box

by the side of the highway; wondered

what they might choose to craft

with their hands, their eyes, both given

so long to the work of chasing

what can’t be contained. I dreamt

un-killable multitudes assembled in the wake

of a slain friend, the name

his mother once cast

like a cloak over him

the small & common blade

beneath their tongues