At dinner tonight, you put
hot sauce in my water glass, and I thought you were perfect.
You were wearing loafers, which didn't suit you at all.
I was thinking of the war, which I never do, but those tanks
lumbered in my dream, and I am still shaken.
Even today when every hour latched neatly to the next
(and each seemed to be the start of something) they were there:
your fingers clutching a splintered handrail, the clean crease
of your black collared shirt, your face staring at your face