Death at Wind River_Mary Oliver

In their dreams
the bullets shine red as roses
in their grandmothers' cheeks
the horses
gallop again over the children,
the young men
can't kill fast enough.
In their dreams
they sleep with the moon
But mostly they drag their heels in the dust,
they pour whisky down their  throats,
they sharpen their knives on nothing
but stones.
They have raged drunk over their old grandmothers.
They have stumbled on the ghosts of the children.
After that, all their nerves click like frozen leaves.
They walk out over the branches of hopelessness.
They think of this world welcoming
the bodies of their sons. 

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