I had a dream of Elks,
antlerless but arousable all the same,

before whom I proclaimed the Void
and its paradoxical intoxicating joy,

infinities of fields our very natures
commanded us to cross,

the Sisyphean satisfaction of a landscape
adequate to loss—

and as I spoke inspired
farther and farther afield from my notes

I saw James Wesson whiten
to intact ash

big-boned Joe Sloane shrivelcrippled
tight as tumbleweed

I saw wren-souled Mary Flynn die again
in Buzz’s eyes

I saw
I saw

like a huge claw time tear through the iron
armory and the baseball fields

the slush-puppy stand
the little pier at Towle Park Pond

until I stood strangered
before the living staring Godfearing men

who knew me when.