Basic Training

Basic Training My will is wasted on the words, Confined in its nothing, Speaking in shards of everything that failed, All laying in its waste. And with slow hands, I tremor, Confined in its something, Rising and falling upon the everything That I nailed,all rejoicing at its gate. And with steady hands, I dream awake, Snapping the rifle piece into place Like the old aluminum bat my father bought When I was all but sixteen. It is cold, and I dream awake, of its beauty, The ring of the winning home run, And I sleep, in its dream, its siren, The shard of providence, my grandfather Once spoke of as a heaven.