PROSELYTE

There, beyond the vanishing point
of the twentieth where victory
awaits the world's rotten soldiers
who march into ceremony
and public addresses,
there were the children and they drew
armfuls of the contempt
no one can understand.
This is not the mystery
you are used to, not
sorry for the children anymore
the break down of all prices
to be paid that wonder
is given to how come
not why but how come

the shocking strophe length of birds,
the temperature monitored by the cricket
the moth as it clings to light
the leaves as they turn to brown.

A new century weaves on
by taking turns with the last one
in gently uneven steps and
they aren't really ready to cry again
not until the private collection
can be retrieved
and they read the meek history
of the burnt fat offering
and outrageous beheadings.
Until someone looses
the long hair from the cache
of boxes under the alleyways
and the soldier eats his first
homemade meal in an eon.
But no, I don't worry much
about the conformity of their dresses
anymore than that,
it wasn't, afterall
what the Beneficent sent me to do.
Here in this part of the country
the work is never finished
and as it winds down
it winds down, the light changes.