outside the tent you have put up the wind is cold, and biting;
i imagine it tears so awful at your skin, and leaves you ravaged
like harlequins (though considerably softer),
and tugs reluctant tears from your eyes:
but you will shield your face, and say it is only bad weather that makes you cry.
and here i am in the sky,
overlooking where you’ve set up camp-
my broken boy soldier alone in the dark,
with your armor and your great gonfalon raised high over your head:
i watch you march across the landscape of the sanctum of my mind
with your head bent,
with your spine stiff.
and isn’t it so lonely, little soldier?
isn’t it hard to fight alone,
with your head bent and your spine stiff?
how can you be so determined?
i may never know,
but i’ll never uncross my fingers
in hopes that your flag is flying at the end of this.