Sister, brothers, here’s rain in winter,
birds black as hindsight,
heavenly snow. It’s a crime.
I see the postman stomping slush,
twisted strap sawing at his clavicle.
It’s grey and cold,
and to my liking,
Dad once wrote from
Surely not the worst man ever,
just not ambitious enough for the job.
His Jump Book is here, a gold
parachute pin, sweet picture of him
smiling in uniform, nursing a toothache.
Remember the
Already sweating by reveille,
scent of pine barracks in a thousand dreams.
He jumped forty times.
Number forty landed him in a tree,
a branch through his armpit.
The house tittering around him,
He can’t smoke, read.
His arm quivers, feels that tree coming up fast.