LAUGHING AT THE SUN

Despite advice, nobody tells us
where or how the journey ends—
how deep the dark holes
or demons living therein.

Cut to the hollow words
of war drums to follow
bright blood trails back
to the stench of burning flesh

on diesel smoke released
to every shade of jungle green—
home of all the unknown
souls that there remain.

Or winter phone call
from your trailer banked
behind bales of straw,
pistol on the shelf—

we decided to wait
until morning.
Become brothers
twenty years ago,

I would come for you.
There is nothing left
to save today, but
tomorrow’s memories

floating above it all—
your separate stream
of chuckling wit
still laughing at the sun.

for Rod