RUN SILENT, RUN DEEP

I dreamed last night that the pungent spring aroma
of a sidewalk tree was dizzying. Even our steps are other days:
the brig and sugar packets, circular saws and kitchen doors
left open—ideal for the soldier who goes from war to war
and who doesn’t have time to blow the bridge.

Those old voices and memories lie quietly in the axe,
just take from them every strike of the concords.
Splintered window frames hold the cold trail,
and no one knows where only the rain comes in.
I am at peace, though I don’t like seeing my father
pour wine into his glass.

(June 23, 2011)