Helen
Nights of a marriage are like an Egypt in a woods.
Dark around its edges mirror at the heart.
War has gone quiet.
It moves, a reflection: no.
Cheap theatre smell, rooms
settle and hiss. What is he doing. Sleep,
its hours pleat together and close
like a fan, what does she know.
Waters move slightly or do they.
Paths glide to them, to who? Glide off.
Vanishes
out of the marriage, into the marriage.
Troy
vanishes too, murmuring, stain
is a puzzle you do not want
the answer to.
Every war
needs
one.
home