The day is a diamond-tipped blade
And over the great spruce
Droves of dark birds dart
Coming in clouds
A loosening of arrows
From the king’s front line

Slow and loaded
Squadrons of geese sail through
Spearheaded
And the wide thatch burns mercilessly
From the torches

Bring on your big guns, October
Your terse thunder of perspicuity
Your gossamer marksmen
Dazzling, atomic flares of
Pure light

Still
For all your artillery
My ramparts are not yet
Done in

Until night

Until the absence of guns expose
The notes of my own elegy
Perfectly composed
I should have known
Your soldiers
Could sing also

One ariose note of this
And every wall
Comes down

 -- James Krueger