there comes through mist a time lost chaise,
one horse’d, returning in gentle ghostlight
from that far-off dance, crinoline flirt, fan-hidden face,
and the young gray officer, Ivanhoe heart.
A field to the left is somehow crimson
with fire and scream and dead lines risen
to judgment, to punishment, of lives stolen
out a darkling land
so crinoline and officer may have swollen
their wealth and life, from a blistered hand.
You are murderers.