The angle of the sun is low in the sky,
but it’s warm. The piercing, dreaded
winter is gone, given to rain in the afternoon.

Palaces melt along the river, built
of snow and ice. Their trail is easy
to follow along the paths, where bikers with studs

in their tires traverse the mushy tracks.
Kids dressed like homeless men
pass my house after school, with shouts

that rummage in my ear.
They carry trinkets in their hands, garbage
that sprouts in the thaw, seems to grow

from the ground. They pluck it
like gardeners from the yards and gutters.
They head to the river, to the melted

palaces, and build them up again,
only smaller, dirtier. They build
a keep for the gold they’ve plundered.

They play their war and slit the throats
of each other. Playing on until the sun
drops the width of itself below the horizon.

And at home with my son, whispered voices
under the sheets, behind the cushions
that are the strongest black stones.

We boys long for war to break the walls
with fire, and we know nothing
of ourselves, shameless in fake battle.

He says Fire! Machine guns rattle.
Our voices careen, and guts are everywhere!
We see them as silly putty—bright greens

and blues. Blood is tomato soup.
And the battle—two against a billion—
rages on. Inside us it will always rage on.