Deserters call and wave their sacks
at the carriage bound for Petersburg.
What can I name my grief, again, today?
A nickel frozen in the sidewalk?
A tumbling paper bag?
“It’s not too late, you can still look back
at the red towers of your native Sodom,
the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,
at the empty windows set in the tall house
where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed.”