.

In dawn's washed-out light
(Spiked fence.  Barbed wire)
trees like matchsticks

hold up the sky.  Knee stumped
in a pouch, the other leg gone,
broad shawl-wrapped shoulders,

(a face not unlike any man's)
you stand leaning on sticks.  Unsure
questioned by the lens (affirming lens,

questioning eyes) your affirming eyes
cast in recognition, say what I
cannot hear.  As I splint

together these phrases,
I lean on your silence,
more than I admit