Shiloh
After everyone had gone
To bed, I sat
Alone in the blown
Speaker of the screen porch,
Reading, oblivious
To the black scissors
Of bats cutting through
The sleeves of insects,
The fireflies firing at me
From the lilacs,
The nurselike cows
Tearing green bandages
With their teeth.
It was 1862.
It was 1993.
I had never had a drink,
Or sex, or thoughts
Of suicide. I was happy
To read of how
Thousands of men died
One otherwise perfect
April day,
In a place that
In the Bible
Means peace.