a highway for pickens

swarthy captain!

the slim élan
of marksmen,

how pale you look, sir!

"we long ago fought a battle in these woods-

there he may walk blindfolded over the pocketed
forest ground, kicking
about a rogue stone that was
not how the captain recalled it. the graves remain fresh.
the horses

return to them until
they cannot run anymore.
they remember

their riders, the bugling, the smoky

and the part of the country
has greatly

fountained out until
under half the midmorning,
a dam

is retracting all the old registers;
pension accounts-


the old horse you kept, wavering in the imagined
wheat fields, so flaxen to decatur rice-

"and the State built a statue
but it was not right-

the sword was gone-
the musket clattered
to a sculptor's dusty

garage floor"