Grass stained knees from childhood misadventure
faded in time to rust-tinged stirring of leaves,
the kind so sodden in March's breaking of ice to care
about the high perch once upon they sat.
Sharp hangover steering through oaken folds,
arm's length from the promise of stable concrete,
pilot's downing led in foot trail tracing to
some open door: coffee and tea all hours.
Below the radio static, the bohemian couples
kissing shut their wound keepers outside the
frostbite metal of the Trotskyist party recruitment
office; suit and tie and Peter Hitchens talking point.
Death of cold coughing, comfort but a Wal-Mart
suit jacket and newly woven impossible tapestry,
I was starring at the woman across the room,
wondering of her fevers, her grass stains