SUMMERTIME
Somewhere in August 1915.
O lost, and by the wind grieved ghost,
come back again, get close
to the rest of your bombed family.
And you, Angel, look the other way
and hold your nose.
Summer, with its hungry flies
is entering the trenches,
dreadful as its blurred horizons,
continually shifting to expose
the front line of Hell
ignited by a black sun.
O lost, and by bullets riddled ghost,
collect the hundreds of eyes
of your new brothers,
roll them around like marbles;
put them together, make a necklace
and wear it now.
You’re so beautiful.
You will see in the distance
hundreds of empty houses,
hidden doors, and all the faces
they have loved and lost.