Season of War

Sentry Meditation 2300

Early now in the season of peace,winter fends off the war.Passes brim over with frigid airlike brass shells in the children’s pockets.

    an old marble quarry bleached white as bone        and sunlight in corrugated sheets

So soon after harvest we eatwell and wait. Violence will comein the spring. But now village firesgather silent at dusk:boat lamps on dark water.

    summer sea, below the terrace,        caresses with gentle, crushing hands.

Each of the hills has been givena name and a distance for targeting mortars.Headlights crawl along the only roadand I practice calling for fire—

    pinwheels clattering against the terrace fence        like sandals slapping stone stairways

Distant Kalashnikovs bark at the moonThe guard tower in its steel framegroans as my relief clumpsboots up the stairs—too cold, too latefor it to be anyone else.

Sentry Meditation 0300

There is snow piling the perimeterwall. There is snow foldedlike clean towels on the lowburied roofs of the mess, the laundry,the barracks, and a soft lightframes the op-center door.I am an unfinished sketchin the cold on the tower: I amreduced to fingertips,earlobes, one glowing emerald eyein a gargoyle mass.No longer concernedabout attacks, I stay awake,I watch, but I am not concerned.There will be no roadsuntil the snow melts.Gusting cemetery flags have becomefamiliar. I have given upmistaking them for men.Burned garbage bagsfish-hooked in concertina wirehave stiffened with frost.One wild dog remains. These nightshe saunters throughrazor wire, finding some warm spotnear the burn pit in a ditchwe dug to direct claymore mines.To my bare eye he is invisible.