The Song

That day, in the slipping of torsos and straining flanks on the bloodied ooze of fields plowed by the iron, And the smoke bluish near earth and bronze in the sunshine floating like cotton-down, And the harsh and terrible screaming, And that strange vibration at the roots of us... Desire, fierce, like a song... And we heard (Do you remember?) All the Red Cross bands on Fifth avenue And bugles in little home towns And children's harmonicas bleating

America!

And after... (Do you remember?) The drollery of the wind on our faces, And horizons reeling, And the terror of the plain Heaving like a gaunt pelvis to the sun... Under us--threshing and twanging Torn-up roots of the Song...