That night in his camp the moon revealed

what would become of his body after dying


All those things he tried to hide

would be made known:

molar grimace,

dark hollow of his loins,

the face of a beaten boy

drooping to both sides,

flesh let go of scars


The belly he grew after the war

would no longer sag sadly over a belt buckle,

the ragged heart under his ribs would be

shriveled and black,

the fragment of a wing long lost in his brain

would swing brittle on a cobweb inside his skull

He’d fear neither evil nor the clock’s late hand,

a lopsided gait nor a woman’s farewell


He lay under the power of the moon

wrapped in a sleeping bag,

seeing those things as in an x-ray,

sure he’d been awake all night


When he looked skyward and saw the sun

dazzling the frozen lake,

the fire long cold,

he felt a dusting of new snow

dripping on his forehead

from a last lock of hair