What remained of the Army
trotted about the storage rooms
cursing and stammering.
Two squat sergeants were conniving
to knit lapwarmers for their hearts.
The clacking mob outside inhaled,
then blew the petals from their capes:
The new moon was tufted with buzzard down!
A captain sat down to write his wife:
“I remain baffled by their coy profiles;
since Tuesday, the youngest soldiers
have been hunched beneath the eaves
like homeless bluebirds, gurgling
in washed-out clumps of disarray.
They dwindle inconclusively
next to the charred bosom of war.
I am immensely well, will not
be home for Easter, please give my love—
whiff, wilt and laden—to the birds.”