après la guerre bathed in lights and arcing bottle caps,
bellied and safe in the attic stars’ hammock nets.
it is sled-barreling down icy fallows.
it is the heart shaped picking lock for an already ajar door.
it is the lamenting lover, no longer like the swooned leaf pile in autumn.
it is the lamp’s uniform circle, shadow boxing and flickering along the snowy footpath.
it is the gutter collecting rainwater.
it sleeps in the gallery of violins and telescopes,
silent next to the trickling faucet,
folding and unfolding with the emerald tide,
forever charting the zodiac.
damp envelope lyric unread, après la guerre is both surveyor and courier.
it is the outstretched arm of the pawing desert lion.
it is the dry crooked fingers of witches’ wick.
it is the factory’s gathering heap of ghostwork…in turn of the century theater yarn.
it is unraveling ageless lore.
après la guerre is early july’s sumatra morning at the kitchen table,
green curtain flapping against the open window,
near insects and lawnmowers,
exploring any page of a Calvino fantasy.
it is yearlong sunday grace.