the wounded fields never really breathe again,

only smooth themselves and lay waiting for

more gain, the way horses used to cut the

spring grass in frantic hoof and the screaming

still caries echo over early rain-

there are a million moments in this ever-

world spanning, spinning mad and unconscious

and the particular tragedy never holds its own

for long.

so we make signs and shape marble. we do it

for the words once ringing, and we do it

for the art in memory, but really it is a lonely

little bastion against fading, that all ground is

hallowed, all quiet places once sprouting

moments of white flower,

and running red