Sundial

by Mark Blaeuer

Across a boulevard that might have been
annexed as rural in 1945,
before its modicum of postwar growth,
our stockyard empties. Prodded up the ramp,
beef cattle scent long-buried fear crept out
of each grave. Gnomon to a radial
arrangement of white marble (upright style),
one soldier lifts his bronze arm—patina
for olive drab—as if to question. Vein-
blue sky pumps to artery-red.
Cicadas keen in oaks. Half moon hangs pallid,
muscle on a hook, a piece of earth.