Just under the sandy surface of the past,
not intentionally buried, but as if, on
a summer afternoon, unbuckled in the heat,
its canvas straps soaked brown with sweat,
it had been set aside, an iron bell that rang
one last flat note, an infantry helmet
from World War I that belonged “in the family”
as we would have said, though whose it had been
had been forgotten. I had played with it
as a boy but not thought about it since,
its having been covered by sand and clay
from other memories washing down out of
the years, until one dented edge of it
showed, underfoot in a dream, and there it lay
as if reaching up as I woke this morning,
and patiently scraping it out with a spoon
I’ve dug away most of the hardened clay,
pulled free what was left of the straps,
and brushed its salty hollow nearly clean.
I have grown too old to try it on again.