ken burns' civil war

the television heralded forth some triumph-or-another and the knights all hallowed forward their kneeling horses. we did not feel it. the breath outside reminded us of malaria, and when

susceptible to it,
our kings bowed in fear. nothing much is hallowed now-
the corner store where some-one's brother works,

perhaps, or the gravestones from
the eighteenth century in the back-counties. those places are hallowed-

so we watch
little television. music and all finery is well-
and-
good when there behind it lacks a mandate-

but still-
to err is to be on either side of the gun-

a slipshod army
built out their encampment. it seems from the atmosphere we are bivouacked against
this tuft of oceanic hillside, our stygian evenings
tide-to-extending-
tide

"going someplace", or "just returning"

(and it was a fiddle player up by new york,
mourning a wife, a handful of children maybe
even a beloved dog,

who would dare pretend the stars were not in
our sky,

did not nod down
our heroes)

supposing,
simply supposing,
the pheasants in the wood
really could
speak the truth.

oh what an easy time of it then. the sea is restless. bade it silent it is a modern night. no-
one is coming.