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 
as thunder. 

          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.