The Sisters

One outlives her sympathies, and one
must drowse by day because her nights refuse
to let remembering stop. She as in stone
imprisoning walled for all her penitent tears
waits on reprieve.
One from her window stares
continually. Highways dance in haze.
Sunday makes still excepting pain refines
absence to something keener. No one cares
quite as another does. A bell complains;
Christ's wheatcake body eaten, he lies dead.
At Sangro the patrols discomforted
touch gently, disengage, and curse the flares.