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.