Ager Mortis

Ager Mortis

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Were it more than a child dallying in the minefield like an old fool,
Deeper and deeper in the mud—much, much deeper—
Would it be foreseen: a deceitful, passionate affair; a glowing fake smile,
But always the same—a consequence of earth and in fact, not so deep? And not so shallow, either?
But somewhere in the middle, instead?
Were it more? Were it less?
Were it steeled in conviction and bound, and breathing, and armored, too—
Would the ease of friction startle the breath from a man?
Would east become south-southwest?
A reflection off a degree or worse: the total absence of it?
Would the scent of pine tickle a man in the chest?
Make him roar with laughter, but tacitly, as though shamed?
Were he to see the heavens and skies of another day
(Those partly destroyed ones belonging to another theater)
Would he say to his father: I am lost now, but I will come?