Big shouldered city of men, failing
hands barked stigmata
in the work: all they know
furrows the globe, their arms span
a molten century: crucible eyes,
uniform brown, ennobled by the odd
button--surprising, but fitting
the red oh like a mouth
like a tongue: the earth
flies to greet them all, worms sing
their hymns all in accord now, recorded
echoes in stone row on wakeful
row: the century’s tide of poppies
flows among them, rushes bending
to nourish: the helmet
turned up, a hungry vagrant
bowl poised under a testicle cloud.