Untitled, 072820131301 [draft For Gettysburg, Whitman]

Smell the breath of grass
First at their backs and bayonetted sides
Because this, the duty of the living:

Starched by newsprint, high
Helicopter-angels, smoke long cleared or
F-stop so narrow the gunpowder greys

Everything. The grass
[wet, red], but grows just; that there is sorrow
Waning as the sun begins to pass; that

The Adams County
Boil will not be dread long in the shade
O’er the whispering dead, I must rejoice.

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