In these moments Nothing passing between
hearts, everything turning to mist. Then blank.
In his mind, sleeping wars and the sleeping
soldiers with rifles against their knees. Guns
and the shoulder straps, seductively slung
across the breastbones of the uniformed.
In their boredom, I imagine them stand
and cross one leg over the other. Steam
off their wet brows changes light. Forms them
into light. And morning is a softening
bronze. I imagine father forfeiting
nothing, save the grace that is this moment.
As my father forfeits field and nation
and I dream nothing in these turning skies.