Small nationals fall

To destroy the commonwealth

Of the ground—who'll protest,

But soggy, wet—desist

Under continued onslaught—

And turn into clods of mud

Under grass shoots' protection—

From silver clubs' beating—

Beating silver clubs—exploded

Brown adobes beneath brave,

Thin green sentinels flattening

Murdered, or suicidal;


The fight passes, silver chutes

Cease dropping down—it races on

Or slowly prowls—aiming

At another lawn—

Behind it in hopeless quandary

The grass—rebuilding,

Respringing, amid the mud's

Strutless ruins—these huts—well-wishers—

But cowards, easily broken in halves

As the surprised military fell atop the grass,

Left cut sections open to rust; great plump swells


By the unexpected, unmitigated.