I know no beautiful things
To get there even
across temples, cheeks
light falls, see
beneath, this shouting grass lies
waterlogged bodies with lungs full of earth
a boy, a blade of grass in his mouth singing
when Johnny comes marching home.
I place my ear to the ground and listen.
I'm lonesome since I crossed the hill
You hold me like a flank
but I know
the laurel wreath is ready now.
Place it upon my head
kiss me while we still think we are free
until morning when
the dead boy will play reveille.