Fog in the mirror keeps us from
each other. Dust preserves memories –
they remain untouched like stuffed beasts
in a natural museum, names labelled
in an extinct tongue. Your lot
is that, which you cannot escape –
a war still waged the old way, in
trenches. Still, a learned smile conceals
it well. Night falls, you slip your hand
out through the mosquito net, straight into
the jaws of the wind. His breath is
moist and tinged with tobacco; he says, laughing:
I forgive you for your youth.