The Time is Five-Forty-Six in the Afternoon
An affair, that heavy burden, slipped,
taken for its trouble. And those stares
into hours of madness, into heat and dust.
Those lamentable bonfires, but she retains
his letters. He need not have. That ring.
He stood in coat-tails, singing, inaudible,
and the air grew round and nodding.
Found him in the morning, lost
in the voice of flags and a bugle.
revised 7 Feb: 22.46,
written for Found Poetry Review, Text Clock