I’ve come back to the battlefield for the memorial service.

Today, the dead names chime like antique clocks
All set at different times.

The blue riflemen shoulder arms and walk away,
Leaving us to live on through this time of careless miracles
Where the dead can speak to us through DVDs and screens
As carelessly as the sun reflects itself on water.
They age only as old phone books do, in their usefulness to us.

Here, where days once straggled through barbed wire yards
-Sharpened by fear and shaped by death-
The spring trees shout with blossom
And the cat sunshine rolls against memorials, graves;

Below the winged mosaic of clouds,
The Arabic script of holiday jets
Where birdsong shines, there calls the simple horn.
Goodbye.

Now, back in my hotel room, I call upon you all-
Old friends-to press your hands to your sides of the mirror
So that mine can cover yours, thus
Feeding the war gods in this age of miracles.