That his dead
bringing him home.
A man carries his door,
the door of his house,
because when the war is over
he is going home
the groves and orchards
poisoned, fathers and brothers tortured,
hope abandoned with the other heavy furniture
it isn’t much of a road, the future
“The trouble with intellectuals,” Manny, my boss,
once told me, “is that they don’t know nothing
till they can explain it to themselves.