Somewhere tonight some poet is stacking words like wood for the wild phrases of a fire the whole hall will stare into. Already he is singing, charging the air with the shock of a battle they must believe as won. And if the door opens it is briefly, but enough to let the night in. And later, as cold seeps in to confront its opposite, and all are fastened to the glint of flames, they will sense in the smoke their own, linked destinies, see the flash of lives and in the rich earth of ash the rooted cinders, my eyes.
Already, it is evening. Night, ashen with torches, settles in my eyes like sand. I would have risen earlier, arrayed with armies, against you. But in that sleep I felt your fingers plaited in my hair, your mouth closing upon each eye and there were voices, muffled, as when I was younger and you held me, making each woman wait. Last night, my father, instead of armor, it was your body against me.
Here is where his body hung, looted and stark against the sky, the coin flashing from his mouth all that remained of the constellation that bought his death. This is where the knot was loosened and he fell. Now, stubble softens and spreads. The whole field shifts, fluid. Beneath this tree that blooms in colors of blood his face floats up, his bones sink and are betrayed by beauty, by the green and shallow spring.