Mathew Brady Arranging the Bodies

On a mountain flat with snow a blue cloud paints a last touch of life. There’s endless harm in trying a dead body on for size. The gentleman stands out in every detail, except color. He considers his life of a madness that breaks unexpected (one boy had a sweetheart he wore her hair round his finger it kept it from falling off with the rest) or comes also if he composes it (lift one eye shut, put rifle butt in the slack jaw of soldiers decomposing). He fell in love like a woman in the folded arms of a drying sweater: touched one shoulder and a whole platoon was affixed with smiles. Teeth already loose falling from their envelopes thick folded letters in a dead white mist.