nothing else less

books of words like
hope is dying
others we can't yet sound
the meaning is keening above in the night
like the owl to the cat who in black
comes slinking in only after
roaring round the corner like
a bat out of hell
proverbially
and then
you come
riding through like a wind
through the mountain alps
and there
is one other
another
a solitary friend in shadows dusk
soldiering on
like a child's toys battered missing their color
to the craters and the dents of exploded artillery
with letters nonetheless
to write to those left behind where not
once written not
left is much more
is left
to roll on but always
the birds fly on their famous vees
no longer for victory or anything
of the sort
we are all
weirdly armed
on this night
for this night
the one after the one we remember
that never ends as though
it never was.
But still we know.