From the lanky schoolteacher-sergeant from Vermont. Somewhere, sometime, in a tent, by a red loud noise, Under a dirty coat and a slab of tobacco, He had lost a piece of himself, a piece of life. He couldn’t die till he got that piece of him back And felt its ragged edges fit in his heart. Or so he thought. Sometimes, when he slept, he felt As if he were getting it back⁠—but most of the time It was only the mist and counting the flies that bothered him.