A cigarette’s walk away from the barracks
sweet-corn grows in rose gardens;
dead sober, we wheel on the spot
and stagger down the road to the tracks.
He feels his hand in plaster through
the pain, not through another’s touch.
Nor does he notice the hand that places
a cup of hot coffee on the table.
Because the night is bright with explosions;
besides, he’s still got mist on his specs,
and a leaf, out in the yard, under
the raindrops is beating like a heart.