I
Wisdom has left the father's house
anima is in retreat
sure-footed animus becomes
a sightless eagle above the conflagration
devouring wind, weather and shade,
language has lost its meaning
the word becomes the thing
the grave suits scamper
up the abstraction ladder
seeking cover
flag-draped coffins slip
into Delaware under night
veto, sunshine denied
the slow ceremony of the dying
denied and the thousand
are held in postage stamp
cyber corners, newsprint
graves, a final bloodless
melancholy hijacked by political
churn speaking self-serving
unconscious grammar
that makes war holy
the gift of big appetite
a chest thumping November
narrative bought, bloodied and
ransomed by the land.
II
The land calls
pulls us down
into patterns of remembrance
insisting resurrection begins
with the scent of animal
man locked in righteous
combat, fingers on the blade
the stink of death everywhere
Mars underfoot
wounds and lost limbs
carried into every neighborhood
every speech, every rally
into every mouth
that honor speaks
down into the gut
that breathes and rumbles
war into hearts
of the righteous who walk
lock-step with the no cost
innocent, ribbon-bearing
crowd, deeper still with
the slow moving larvae
of coagulated blood
giving up our primitive DNA
at a blessed human pace.
III
The land still calls
taking us down deeper
to Hemingway's reliable nouns
and towns that belong
on the tongue--Countryside, Il.,
Comfort, TX., Long Pond, PA.,
Lead, SD., Graniteville, SC,--
all pockets of New World
innocence, rock-solid
grounded, leaden, granite-
like zones, promising
air, water and salvation
taking us deeper to the
holy dead from Abad to Zurheide
our national polyglot
from hamlet and town
from the martial south
from so much Spanish blood--
Abad, Acosta, Amaya. Anguiano
and names the
tongue remembers--
Bacon, Blitz, Braun, Chan,
Chen, Dang, Ford, Gray,
Hart, Hull, Korn, Lee, May,
Nice, Saltz, Smith, Spry,
Stone, Teal, White, Wine,
Wolf--are returned
again and again
through slow language
to the deep earth.