and
splatter mud. Their hands now are
clean,
and their words, not like old greenwood spears, are keen
enough
for testing aim and proving they are men.
The
indians have run off, covering their little legs
and
tossing their headbands into the dust.
Fingers
that learned sharp edges here stay pocketed
among
small change and keys and lists of numbers.
Their
old carved faded pole leans like a tall stump,
one
of its faces with wings like ears, another
with
mouth, untoothed like an old mother. A third, with beak,
is
eyeless where the white stones used to be.
They
won’t be back. Old flying ears
hear
woodworms, teeth grow moss, nostrils
fill
with white roots of small persistent feeding plants
and
empty eye-holes sleep among the trees.