evening’s thought-

flags blow by
him, nostalgic, proper
drags in unraveling

in his throat—sheets
brush against his

pillow, he blushes
at the smell of leftover

smoke, wants to tear
through the air, he

can’t, he knows
his dreams, the salt

of them burning
his lungs, his letters

lost to bird-wing
smiles and juries

of broken teeth