MARK YAKICH

Funeral Direction

     —for Pfc. James Thomson

Dice-rammed river
Of time, this winter ploughed
By breath. The waters
Over bedrock creak—you
Could call them frozen,
Though they don’t give
Until the oxygen is gone.

The seasons always
Seem to be a form making
Meaning, a kindled motion.
Time heals nothing but soldiers’
Insomnia. You know
You saw lightning strike once
In your life. But no nut-

Strewn shepherd fell dead.
No dune wound itself up again.
Some bastard-bird simply chimed
In, and death came for you
Like you wanted spring to do.  

   Contributor’s notes
   Seersucker

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