FAST SETTING
AND MIRACULOUS
Skyfall. I was the one running. The new
crescent moon hung angled in the sky.
Twilight. Midnight. Morning. Like nothing
ever moved at all. I truncated the rebels
at the old border's edge. Rousted them
with ricochet and raiment, ran their
footsores loosely through the gamut.
Trumpets blared and a parrot sang.
Valley Forge and Maple Gorge, the lasses
in the violet sky were singing. No one bent
the dirges or bowed to dawn's early light.
Every blessed thing was every blessed thing.
-
The scourpath beguiled; all the marshalls
and a major stopped and gaped while
horses whinnied, slept and yawned.
That's just the way it went back then,
in that - older - revolution. Years later,
lifetime achievements and medals of honor
never meant as much; never. And now,
all the old ones, they're gathered on the
hilltop singing songs, dirges to what occurred
and hopeful scats to the newest of volcanoes.
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