May. And the warm humidness

As the tops of a wet wildebeest.

Crickets rub the soil,

Scratch their flying mechanisms with skinny legs

Coming out in front of the military

In deep angle ways, wings a mist.

The military didn’t know anymore,

Looking at the only ruins of the roads,

Corpses covered with blankets, and the bright daylight,

How sunny it is, how solid and hard and bright.

It will take many screws from the corpse markers

To stop and block this light, which shows off anything:

The many feet of the deceased their hands,

Their white faces and heads were so chilly, immune to the brightness.