Lou Suarez

In Savannah

Here, the dead are never dead.

Therefore, the living

stroll the ordered squares all night,

raising open beer bottles to

ancient generals, houses

where ghosts of burned children reside.

How soft, how plaintive – counterpoise

to the tattoo of guns and lightening—

are their young voices: We’re scared.

Let us come in. How imminent

is their presence, how slight

their impression on the bedclothes.

They are like the Spanish moss,

neither moss nor Spanish; like us,

breathing thin air, living rootless.