wants to trample what it cannot bear.
And how rage consumes that field
burning in dream light, where again
I sit with my brother
among the endless meadow-rue.
And it is he who is so kind
as I make my usual fist, shaking
and pointless, because I know
death has given him this smile
that has nothing to do with me.
I cry harder, dressed in the faded
working clothes he’s cast away,
the muddy boots, his hands and eyes
my own, though we are no longer the same.
And I cannot hold him back,
not by arm or word, the way I stomp
the everlasting whiteweed; the body
turning to gunshot,
the body falling.