A man said to the universe:
Sundays too, my father got
up early
a pleasent smell of
frying sausages
the whiskey on your breath
looking for something
in the sunday paper

I am wondering what
became of all those

small

abstractions

Fear passes from man to man
Pale brows, still hands and dim hair
While my hair was still cut straight
across my forehead

There will be no monograms on our skulls