For P.J. Catherwood, MIA, July 21, 1918
A universe sinks into the hills,
a vacuum of sunlight spreads like hair.
Words form in mouths and suspend
in mist. Trees shiver beyond the stone
walls where empty worlds are loud
What years these,
a decade ending with a paper savior
ablaze? The sky’s flak crawls
like clouds across the countryside.
A rain falls and dry earth
swallows the dimples left there.