From the sound of the bugle
in the rush of the wind
The bodies are counted
as grieving begins
In the morrow replaying
as blood spills again
The enemy forward
whose countenance grim
The courage of many
all acting as one
Their wills long suborted
with fear on the run
Till the bugle goes silent
the bugler face down
Last day ill remembered
—a wounded dog howls
(The New Room: June, 2023)