There beneath the parapet, frail and graceful,
he fled, treading pale and raucous,
from the raw horned rasps of rifles and snares, wistful.
The paper-backed birches lined the red river’s carcass
till dusk, and setting in the blueberry breeze.
Bleeding out their bows and spreading like palms above the starkness.
His desertion becoming in the mountain’s chimneys
made him the one lost and wandering in brashness,
and they’d said he’d mend his broken back, hole in head, supine in the lilies.
And so with colt in hand, we chased him chinless,
to find, by way of the darkened trench-tops,
our own backs broken, trodden and helpless.
Whether he lived his blue days to their brightest and full,
Remains left , to be seen, trapped in thought, inside his skull.