BLOOD BROTHERS
The blunt snouts of a dozen worms or so
Were busy at the thing that had worn clothes,
As conscientious as a lot of clowns
And quite as self-absorbed.
Beside the grave
A figure stood in armor, stood and blazed
With the pale dazzle of an April moon,
Rippling a steely silver from his wings
That trembled in their fierce desire for air;
Armed like an angel, blazoned like a king,
And proud as charging seas first seen at dawn.
The worms raised up their heads and spoke to him.
He answered like a father to his children,
Praising them all for honest, quiet work,
And pointing out new pastures.
And they bowed;
Again became a stir among corruption.
He looked upon the seethe with steady eyes
Of awful friendship.
So I left them there,
The three immortal parts of John J. Jones.