March on. Join bravely. Let us to it pell mell
  If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell.

Such are fuses:
bright, but shorter than than their aim
to chinks in shells in tubes in turrets,
mistaken for wombs, stirruped
for birthing shoulder blades
to fall and plow vermilion fields.

Hunch-backed madman,
you knew they’d raise you from the dead.
Flags and faith blow all ways
and men are easy to aim.
King, we bury you.
Yet, tomorrow you’ll roll and rise again.

Gavin W Sisk