The Dead City
A used battlefield grows quiet;
among strange escutcheons
the wind keeps silence;
and if one should return,
seeking the cold towers,
the glutted drain,
the windows that looked onto cliffs
and cliffs beyond them,
armed with steel and snow —
then there are high seats for his rest,
there are passes for the gates
flung down like dice;
there are robes of ivy
and the seeping fireweed
that he may claim, uncontested.