The closest I have been to Europe
is in following him when he gets, you know,
restless. That long-hard look in his eyes
and all the talk of misunderstanding, shouts
to the back of the place for more ice. Not
the slurring, but the guns. The checking or
rechecking to see if they’re all oiled and loaded,
a missive about the French and their dependence
on soldiers. When he rubs his knee
it could mean anything, but he assures anyone
within earshot this is a wound from idiocy
or romance, because no land mine could ever
find him. I grow a beard and the ocean turns green
on every side of us, think I should reorder my life
around similar sections: The water before, the water
after, this endless far-off now. Before the generator
starts humming, there are candles, the way light
becomes hesitant, insistent, and distracted across
a face while sipping rum. The swimming earlier
encouraged thirst, but on the boat tomorrow
there’s no telling which way we may turn our heads
point our direction upwards and reclaim the world;
watch our visions disappear.