Selective Service
We rise from the snow where we’ ve
lain on our backs and flown like children,
from the imprint of perfect wings and cold gowns,
and we stagger together wine-breathed into town
where our people are building
their armies again, short years after
body bags, after burnings. There is a man
I’ ve come to love after thirty, and we have
our rituals of coffee, of airports, regret.
After love we smoke and sleep