You ask about facts whole-souled objects of excitement.
Society dotes on war and the wounded as the cranium opens like a crater
with snow vanishing under its warm skull.
A sea of mud against fragments. We are slowly learning
every surgical operation is a miracle.
Still the pollard willows transcend comprehension
hang on for months. There’s tenderness
for familiar things like bones encircling
We seem to be of guns.
Veritable white squall burning out.
What has been accomplished does not die.
Birds regain use of speech. All the talk
mostly starlings though one doesn’t get the whole story from the autopsy.