Devil’s Lake

As his plane sank—men, apples, and guns—

to a seabed rich with oysters, their pearls were crushed

to milk beneath the heavy body.

Back in the abandoned hollow it was

hardly improbable no person had passed by or heard

how the young man,

one day, enlisted and left.

Under the current of days and moon change,

his inherited horses distressed

in the field unmown—

not ridden or oated—a cur tormented

their unshod hooves.

In summer, bees nestled

in their clotted manes while they brayed,

no longer much like plough horses.

The wheat-plated hills sent up

their animal pleas—as to a jury

ten men deep.

The gone farmer begged

for their relief in permanence

from famine, tick, and welt.

So his god broke

the fence at each gray rotted post.

His horses were never attended again.