They all wore little hats Vermont that I Can see, the river its coronet Of yellow beetles—crawling, Flying—the flowers wearing The river for a hat. I can see that When I stand alone Upon this acre as now Sober and living, the same, the same. They wore: Hats. They are not dead, John and Johnny and John, Which is a fine name for a river, Only gone. Having death out of the way, The ill-fitting suicide discarded, Pajama-like, on imaginary sand: Good, good. We stand.
Copyright © 2012 by Donald Revell. Used with permission of the author.