How his eyes dilate at the famous pictures.
Death yanked and slapped
into pleasing compositions.
The quickening in his buttocks and groin
when he beholds the arching spine
of the man-child slain on the field
under Seminary Ridge.
Gut in air, head forced back,
legs delicately spread:
a baby fighting the diaper,
in extremis, erotic, dead.
He’s fingered the facts,
thumbed through books
the size of family albums.
Salivated over generals strutting
in front of airy tents:
uniformed men posed in camp chairs,
circles of men conferring.
Muscle and haunch
rippling under dusty trees.
He’s in love with numbers.
Names of battles.
A litany of hindsight reflections
he can confidently recite.
Like the shiny drops placed
in a newborn’s eyes,
the photographer’s silver gelatin
has spilled into his blood.
A liquid dream. He falls and falls.
Green apples float through morning air,
and the slender limbs of boys
who left them hanging there.