At Yorktown,

green grass is hallowed,
the earth both deep and shallow.

The dead have been turned into soil,
the bricks to marl.

Tree swallows fly.
Buds of flowers are opening eyes.

Brass weathers green.
Green mermaids serve as local queens.

You know, if you’ve ever been
such instructive images sink in.

Large flies both dawdle and hum.
Time sleeps as if buttered in rum.