He would’ve explained how it was still raining,
near dusk one evening, the sky a bright shimmering pink.
The fog made things seem hollow and unattached,
his life was still a constellation of possibilities.
You could let your hair grow, he said.
Some things you can feel.

He would’ve explained how it was still raining,
leaning forward, head down,
wading across the field to the river
and then turning and wading back.

He would’ve explained how it was still raining
as the sky went from pink to purple,
across that dotted line between two different worlds,
a place where your life exists before you’ve lived it.
The vapors **** you in.

He would’ve explained how it was still raining;
he should’ve taken one look and headed for higher ground.
The rain was the war and you had to fight it,
no time for sorting through options, no thinking at all.
He remembered trying to crawl towards the screaming,
and the bright pink sky, and the war, and courage.
You come over clean and you get *****.
He was part of the waste.

Outside, a soft violet light was spreading out across the eastern hillsides.