there are ghosts in his sleeping face
bearded and wounded among
the blue and white quilt
coiled around and beneath his
bare legs. they are hungry,
lonely and mute, guarding him
though they tremble, hollow and grey
they grasp dull knives that
slice in his memory
the inconsolable shadows
piercing the quiet, creating
transparent motifs of
blind armies that march
in the lost lamplight of his room
he sees through dreams
in bloated yellow pauses
his trick of mind
begging for warm places;
to root, in which to begin
anything to free him from his loss
the fenced-in loss he feels
he wakes long enough
to look at her, wondering
why he stays
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