The ’possum under the owl’s claw,

The wet fawn huddled in the grass,

The soldier, hurt, in his lost trench

Clench the eyelid, clutch the breath

Till scavengers, till coup de grâce,

Death and the lurking terror pass.

Vice tight each muscle lest the pent

Tendon spasm, twitch; preserve

All rigor, silence, so the blood

Thuds slower, fainter through the vein

Till the chilled skin gives off no scent;

Drain all least current from the nerve.

Clamp the arm tight against the head

To hush that whisper in the nose,

The click if lips slip open. Cover

Over this face and form; disguise

Whose body’s lying on the bed,

Eyes that still stare too wide to close.