for Butch
It was the green, the maple leaves
Turning their light side toward
The broken spaces between our words –
The red-tailed hawks that break
And pivot into our stories,
Our conversation of grace,
The impossibility of reason,
How we got here from the red
Mist of Ca Lu and Khe Sanh –
The distractions of years
And gravity that numbs us
As to why we sit here
As old men yet boys
Rehearsing a method to live
In this world and wonder
Why the truth still sounds like a lie.
Oberlin, Ohio
June, 2019