In Loss

Swamp-walk the field of razor grass,
Sharp sheaves of steel, magnetic
To the iron in your blood.

Upon the rust red ground, sit,
And all will gleam in menace.

Stand then.

Reconnoiter.

Pick out at the extreme horizon
Beyond this green-gray field,
Shimmering uncertain smudges,
The visual reduction of friends.

And toward these,
With a turbulent company of
Fears and injuries,
Move.