1864

Like true believers elated by what they've seen,

as if at the end of days, raptured away

like millions more of undying credence,

this Union soldier's ankles crossed,

his ditch-mate's demure arms folded

like an Annunciation angel's,

others flank to flank, mouths catching flies-

how candid and unharmed they look,

these teens in O'Sullivan's photograph,

grimy mother-of-pearl faces

aspiring to another life or way or time,

who see where we don't. Who among us can say

(we the quick, fattened, fed, sheltered,

alive because we look and grieve)

what they saw, what stiff promise

their brains made or erased,

or what millions today on TV will see

in empty combat boots spread on a lawn,

far from their desert, clownish and collapsed

for lack of feet they never fit quite right?