Full moon. Our Narragansett gales subside

and the land is celebrating men of war

more or less, less or more.

In valleys, thin on headlands, narrow & wide

our targets rest. In us we trust. Far, near,

the bivouacs of fear

are solemn in the moon somewhere tonight,

in turning time. It’s late for gratitude,

an annual, rude

roar of a moment’s turkey’s ‘Thanks’. Bright & white

their ordered markers undulate away

awaiting no day.

Away from us, from Henry’s feel or fail,

campaigners lie with mouldered toes, disarmed,

out of order,

with whom we will one. The war is real,

and a sullen glory pauses over them harmed,

incident to murder.