surrender after one hundred and thirty eight years

i.
the magnolia comes with horses,
riding over-top, the soapy sweat
briny on the heaving flanks-

and at the ridge,
small humped falcon-
is the sun, which

comes through the
pall of sickened trees,
hardbacked, standing
dark, and swathed in
puzzling moss,
sweet white flowers-

ii.
no-
thing moves
right
now.

it is
raining.

it has already
been morning, the
sun is shrouded now,
there is a
wreathe of white breath,

something along
the lines of condensing
sweat, off the
long-time-since horse,
carved bas-relief
over the modern
stone hills

iii.
this copper carolina flag does not adorn, no
small breath of love, no nothing but strong rivers
and delicate names-

this copper carolina evening
stands in a harbor. it says slowly,
with many circles of thought,
"flowers

come too. white, and home."

iv.
the
place they
are singing about
was the
land of
kings.

v.
at the rise, the horses are all
that move against innocuous brick buildings,
the woods staring dark
and empty into some sort of
thawed evening, as if spring were
not about to happen, or
the flags were not about
to carry on home.