m.g. at chancellorsville

he is about the wind
of november, the bare wind
that makes
an armistice of the birch by the
lakes, the wise aspen
who perch and are forlorn by

the meandering bivouacs,
partitioned all the old hills.

it is only him,
and only him out among
the cars and the
wintry disheveled parking

he kicks
small stones
against the

he thinks of far off crests, crests
of untidy hills,

how the
hilt would freeze
against the inside
of his tender hand-

how the different,
the bare trees would
rattle about, in november,
the lone

of the crows, who had seen everything,
who might

remember him-

sometimes he
is far away, and his eyes
are far

away into
the grey winter hills