When the box was out of ammunition
someone now dead made a cello of it
and tuned it to the trenches as mud spilled
over the edges and they played elegies
for themselves in the space between concussions
listening for those who’d not hear their voices
again unless they were as lucky as that
ammunition box outliving its usefulness
and becoming song
So a year after we buried it it got right back up
Though we piled the dirt heavy for months on its corpse
It tore through the earth’s severed roots with a hand
(bigger even they say than the hand of the boss)
grasped the grave keeper’s ankle who throwing his cup
to the wisdom of stars fled over the wall. One or a million
or more maple leaves or simply a rustling stillness was stirred
and nobody spoke till they gave it its word
Translations from the English 