maybe it's there, in the crevice of his hard heart, that he heard the soft echo of light.

maybe, if the wound really is where the light enters you, it's in the heavy handed claps or in that gruff way men tell their sons, when it seems like the right thing to do, that they love them,

and then it's gone,

vanished into the cold nothingness, behind

rough hands and hearty laughter and the slow descending numbness of duty and honor and being a man.

it's faded, worn over, rusted old coppers,
until there comes along a boy who'll tuck the rough love away, who won't stand startled but rather perplexed,

who'll keep it boxed safe like pressed flowers between thin brown paper.

and then maybe, maybe that sweet boy will spread a few more, until his love is no longer a coarse and dying brittle sea air but nourishing, sustaining,

and maybe then he can start over.