They rose, all beautiful, each beautiful,
Henry Riley waving a cigar
smoking from where the dead are,
and my brother Harry with
a heart under his arm, and
Adam and Eve in bandages
stumbling out of the ocean, out of harm . . . .
And I gave the gun to Harry
as he climbed from the water
toward the wicker porch swing, where
summer had been waiting, and said,
"Harry, it's spring
and your daughter's alive.
She believes in everything."