Poem from the Front

Dispatch: I love in odd places.
And I can’t pull myself out of
those crannies.

Wait
a moment, while I check for the sun.
If it’s come up over the top of the wall,
I’ll know there’s no going
home again – or in. It’s inside

that the film is playing. War stories,
over and over again. Light flickers off the walls,
and the ceilings, darkness clings to corners, and clothing,
and you cannot pull the chord, lest you
bring death in odd places and fail to find
where love is.

I don’t know where love was.
I sleep in gullies and would do better
holding a musket. Deliberate trenches,
dug for battles best fought
on the midnight side of the world.

If you’ll stay
a while, maybe the sun will come up again,
and we’ll see it through the slats. I mean,
does the earth still move out there?
Everything is genocide now. You can’t take
two steps without seeing a massacre, so I don’t
go anywhere. Dark crannies
to make love in. And someday
pry away from. It’s those first rays
I’m looking for. Your sunrise.

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