The general stood on dandelions
thick boots hard soles on yellow
face clinched against grief
for the good of all others
in his selfless dictates

Such knowledge and intelligence
brings the great hand to lung
that fist gripping what must be
pushed out into them pushed out
in an orchestra of movements
what must be pushed out
in tethers and humped up vines
what must be wrapped up and pushed
out to others for their ends
which, in truth, must match
clinched grief on clinched grief
while the green and yellow mushed
waits to rise spongey in light
and air

and air blown wordily in barks
move feet and heads to tiny points
brisk tangents meeting sharply
as blades knitting warm socks
for the feet of destiny each
on each their roles moving out
each positioned freely agreed
and the bite of victory relaxes

such good sons the father wears
each standing proudly in his own
bringing the spoils of duty in
bringing the mist of larger thoughts
shrouding the heads of lesser
beasts dancing their monkey feet
chittering in undeveloped rows
and raised to the call of right

colossus mounded to the earth
the dim weights of eyes raised up
feeding the self-grown grief grown high
in the burning call of sun
colossus mounded to the earth
and the burning call of sun
unwaivering in these rooted strides
then wills the dusk to dawn
then wills while rooted the turning world
the glaring throng of bees,
wild vines slip round fingers
moist dew on stone
only glints of light in beads

words chiseled on a gray stone box
form memories never made
the erected shape of ideal weight
invisible now as bone

I remember the truth
like a warm week in December
never made for leaving
sheltered from the rain

and who said dreams
made in night time
all forgotten
could not stand
as a moment moving on

I remember the truth
in the smallest sacred places
glaring in plain view
shuffled off the ends

and who are you
thinking one thing
worth the keeping
all shuffled away so
no one ever knew

I remember, you
saying one thing
or another, listing
from view then sinking
toward an end

and who am I
when the life boat's
gone a drifting
never quite in reach
in the warm December sea