Night

Reflections sculptthe room

from the longwindow:

a half open door,

light from asingle lamp.

The mountain bares

its silvery sheenand immensity

enters, thejet-blue

velvet of space

against thewindow.

The blanket isflung back

where the sweetwarmth

of skin thrillsthe palm,

where news fromthe day’s

trenches castsshadows

and silently,grief slips in.

Still in Combat

There arescenes   that never leave

the mind   gathering up   the limbs

of a comrade   opening   a car door

only to see   a dead woman

with her children   the merciless heat

of a desert   reappearing

on a beach. There are   sounds

remaining   no one else can hear

sparked   by a door  slamming,

the whine   of a vacuum cleaner.

There are fears   of open spaces   a picnic

in the middle   of a meadow

unease   at people  walking too

close behind   at being

in a crowd   night   after night

going to sleep   and waking up 

with the ghosts   of the killed

feeling    like a failure

for having been   unable    to protect

fallen comrades  there is   no membrane

between life   and death

after returning   from a war.

Of Time and Breath

                        For Elizabeth

We lingered on a green mountain slope —

just you and I in the bronzed

light, the air stilled,

time holding its breath,

although I knew you were in a hospital room

your sigh floating

like a feather above

the swish of footsteps.

But now we two were wayfarers

sharing our stories,

as if we had slipped free

from the sheaths of our distant

cities. Your voice was as steady

as the brushstrokes on your canvases

while I placed my hand

on your shoulder and spoke

of the journey beyond this mountain

that neither of us could chart.

Then I woke up.

One week later you died.