THE LONG GRASS
The trench was like a twisted river
of manure and rust. Bent-
over Al & Bertie, faint
now in memory. That ravin’ conniver
H.G., with the bloodshot eye –
souvenir de Louie? “A touch
of the royal” – not much.
Slaughtered under a Ruskin sky.
All three. South of Ypres-jeepers,
beside the sleepy Somme.
This somnolent hum
of toothy cogs must end, the weepers
say. Someday. When rabid dogs
cease racketing around by
Snuffy’s Drive-in (west end
of Mendelssohn – past the Log
Cabin – in the long grass, by the lake).
Remember the Limping Lady?
Cartwheels no more, sadly.
Tears well. & for God’s sake.
There is only one kingdom, only
one king. We’ll see her through.
That aureole around a blue
moon, Jeanne... born before we.
She cycles through ruin, absolutely.
Up from the crooked well,
like a gleam in a lake. Sea-shell.
To bear it all, enfant. Anew. Étoile-épée.