On the Median
His pants and shirtsleeves hung
so straight they looked empty.
In fact, his left arm was gone.
Driving closer, I was afraid
his face was going to look
just like the back of his head.
It did, the way the collar
of his camouflage jacket
was pulled up against the storm.
On the median separating stores
and the street he stood listing in the rain
as if he'd been planted there.
No, harvested; a foliate youth
sown in the sand of desert
principalities and the sheaf
was gathered and left to season
on this slim cape of grass
alongside some limber
saplings bound to wood staves
making the green trunks stand rigid
while their limbs snap in the wind.
San Pedre River Review