Sleep felt like an exit wound.
Back in his country of origin
he drips from himself like blood,
toying with the faucet, finding the water
too hot at first — Fallujah under neon sun
playing August’s game of horseshoes —
then too cold like winter pennies
inside a leather jacket. A silver moon
doesn’t make us sleepy
or rich. It makes us worry
who might be seen or next.
Soldiers sleep without the curtains drawn,
boots on, wearing death like a costume
you can’t unzip
or like a scabbard with the sword inside
your buddy & no gold,
no glamour on the hilt.
Shadow at Noon
Backlight of the whiskey against me. The hand.
A moment draws its fingers through my hair
then away. I part my love with my lips,
his person ineffably here then gone —
I sew him into language so as to see
a wing’s smudge against a glass door,
fixing the ephemeral to a partition in the light.