The men slumber and they tremble;
their arms folded 'cross their chests
as if to clutch the air to them were to
hold her there--

“Her” a given name for all lost loves
and all half-forgotten women
who bore bastard children

and one man says,

Lovers were once called star crossed.

Now they’re left for dead;

in the streets, in the hollows of the
deep woods where once
they whispered names--

Which have no value here.

The men slumber and they cough,
their throats wet with
phlegm and regret.