buried men
For comfort Helen seeks
out a crowd of young men.
Rows and rows of them
stout, calm, enduring
their battles long
quieted
over, over, over three
come closer, closer, closer
straw of sugar
girl, girl
She turns to her left.
Cenotaphs, still brown grass
reaching for a pale sky
maple leaves like
torn garments of paisley
She walks down the line.
Evenly spaced, waist-high
stones, windless silence
She stops and runs
her finger across a stone.
Polish still smooth
and clean to the touch.
