I imagined a wounded person going into delirium. Outside and in there's battle. The wounded guy is a poet. There were probably "Futility" & "A Farewell To Arms" helping me along.
Rain-water. Light-feet. Life returns
in minute memoranda, ponds rise flooding,
empty ensilages open
and the slow-drift-winter edges over...
Over me the petals, dead or wasting,
flatter age with weak comparisons.
The rain's slow-water, light-feet,
under canvas, are the weather's, birds...
A worn phrase bludgeons over, over me
the light sheet falls, fists-fray, tents-fight.