Furlough

On the nightstand the corpse of a pear,
a whole immobile March,

he shudders awake each four a.m. black
as a whistle—the cold-sweat instant

no hint of who he is—to go out
to the dovecote, throw birds to air, gone

with tuff and lift. The blue ache
a sky all for itself, as joy is.

He feels how thin the lattice is
that holds him, fretwork of rotting palm.

Copyright © 2008 Leslie Williams All rights reserved
from Colorado Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission