Near sunrise they lean back. As headlights blink,
A bus pulls out. Inside, the boys still shivering,
Still slumped, withdraw into silence in their coats.
While dawn is red the color seems to flee
Invisible flesh and scandalize December.
And it would be better if there were secret messages
To capture the misgivings of these sombre children.
Draftees who suffer obscurity, uncomprehending,
Begin with nothing else; but they don't cry
Or disarm those who will never be recovered.
"Letters from the next of kin to newspapers
Arrive each week"...
No comments:
Post a Comment