in the afterglow when he finally rises on his one long ride home.
And survivors with numbers tattooed on their arms, straight as a
the ink indelibly blue, unlike the blessedly changing ocean.
There’s more light than anyone would need.
At six o’clock the sky is bright.
I have my friend’s last poem to read.
We go into the dark and the dark opens.
Boats tipped with light and moon on the water.
Jen who never read anything
but bills and Sunday papers
comes back from the dead educated.
Soon I’d be eighty. My hip ached,
the thumb he kissed bent with arthritis.
His scent was lime, and the nape
of his neck smooth as summer jade.