lighthorse exhumed

the exhumed
rarely say much-
they dream of sons,

and verses on fire,
staring at the underside of a hall,
tackling behind,
the china buttons and
leather straps,

fallen to the floor-

they assure georgia-
that a king's name had been a fine
thing of the time, restless
in the

heavy beds, with the drapes drawn, and the
fresh puncture of autumn in the latitudinal

crawling heat-

they stare
away, heavy days and dreams
of sons,

gray sons and gray eyes with gray buttons,
fallen to the cobbled floor-

many people walk ahead.
the exhumed know much, they have
seen all


partisan eyes
and glass as well