Trojan

When a hurricane sends Winds far enough north To put our power out, We only think of winning The war bodies wage To prove the border Between them isn’t real. An act of God, so sweet. No TV. No novel. No Recreation but one Another, and neither of us Willing to kill. I don’t care That I don’t love my lover. Knowing where to stroke In little light, knowing what Will happen to me and how Soon, these rank higher Than a clear view Of the face I’d otherwise Flay had I some training In combat, a blade, a few Matches. Candles are Romantic because We understand shadows. We recognize the shape Of what once made us Come, so we come Thinking of approach In ways that forgo Substance. I’m breathing — Heaving now — In my own skin, and I Know it. Romance is An act. The perimeter Stays intact. We make out So little that I can’t help But imagine my safety. I get to tell the truth About what kind Of a person lives and who Dies. Barefoot survivors. Damned heroes, each Corpse lit on a pyre. Patroclus died because He could not see What he really was inside His lover’s armor.