November 22, 1963
First, a black mark in the sky,
a speck that grows
into a plane widening,
dramatically circling
before it touches
a gray strip of land
designed for its landing.
Then the players descend
the wheeled stair
to the stage
for the cameras,
our collective eye:
first her, then him,
as is custom,
and their entourage
trailing behind,
those who believe
the world is young
and the future spreads
out like geography.
Mistress Adrienne, I have been given a bed with a pink dresser
In the hothouse
Joining the Concord Public Library: the walls and roof are
Glass and my privacy comes from the apple-geraniums,
Violets, ferns, marigolds, and white mayflags.
I get my meals
With the janitor and his wife and all of the books are mine
To use. I scour, sweep, and dust.
I hope you don’t think of me
As a runaway? I remember your kindness,
Your lessons in reading and writing on the piazza.
My journey was unusual. I saw some of the war
for Dave Smith
Our clothes are still wet from wading
The Chickamunga last evening.
There is heavy frost. We have
Walked on the dead all night.
Now in the firelight
We are exchanging shells and grapeshot.
I can still hear our loud huzzah
When late in the day
The enemy fell into full retreat
Along the pine ridge to the east...
We chased them until we were weary.
Each night this week
There’s been something
To keep me from sleep. Just an hour ago
I saw
