Had I sentenced
myself after

the last,

it would not
turn Harry

any plumber

(or more purple)
in the memory

of the year.

Sock the name
of Pegleg,

red on white,

blue on white–

these stitches

The story is
the story,

a rather circular

with no stories.

Like clocking
invisible oil

raising up
black, a viscous lie

from a holiday
of bleak camouflage,

written Blank,

because that is how
we were called.

It was simple then,
sitting barefoot

and jealous,
about Harry.