... but there is no way I, Hobo, yakking
out of the side of my mouth, got up
in trickster-clown duds (borrowed fop's
Mod-mop, from Bluejay) could approximate
an adequate emblem of the actual measure.
Though maybe that subtle stone portrait,
life-size, in the round, of the winter patriot
standing calmly now in warm downpour... or
just a round marble (cat's-eye) – some boy's
favorite toy – the kid who grows up to go
over there (battling, dying). Who can
say. Not put here to destroy,
but save. Ourselves (peasant oafs we are,
weighted, borne down). But we must turn
(while we can) from the natural sunburn
of a shark domain, toward that evening star –
the dove-star (the supernal one, between
eagle and owl). In the eloquent dusk.
Afloat there, far off, before the fireflies –
day's husk gently set down (slow evening).
The war in the heart thus laid to rest.
Who was born in bloody furrows and
bright winding sheets of lyings-in now
lifts himself to stand, answer (present,
yes) – and go, eyes open, toward Shiloh.
And if only they knew the ways that make
for peace, he said – even as they undertake
this vernal ritual of my farewell. Go, go...