They came to bury their dead,
on fields like Antietam or the Marne,
covered in crows like quilts of crimson and black,
spread out for inspection like a curio.

Came with perfumes more suited to the living,
in jars with witty names, so given by
mad men, who like Adam in his garden
spent days in binomial taxonomy before
retiring to his favorite grove.

With heavy hearts, and burdened hips
they came, faith pierced blackly by
their revolutionary brothers who as
in so many other things, left the cleanup
to the women and went fishing.

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