Arrow straight, a procession of men.
The line hammered into a fuse
winding from one end of the building
to the other. Gilt into a lyrical fountain,
the men—gods in another country, made
small talk. Where, after all, was there
to be? And my father among them fussed
with his tie. And the dust had its own voice
which made the wait all the more beautiful
and sepia. And there were soldiers with rifles
crossing their chests because they were
the real gods here and because blood is
the quickest dialogue and the firmest maker
of straight queues and straighter spines.