Curled against your hip in this shallow ditch,
I can almost forget the slow whine of
far-off mortar fire. I can almost forget the blood
that cakes the dust to your pant leg. I can almost
forget that tomorrow I will carry your
body fourteen miles on my shoulders.
The Belgian night is quiet, and for a while,
the only things raining down on us are the quivering lights
of all the stars over Europe, and for a while,
I am pretending this shallow muddy ditch is a bed
in New Hampshire, with white linens,
many pillows, and your skin.