Brother,
I understand you now,
your cane stabbing the snow,
your lurch, your halt mid-hill,
your clenched monosyllable.
I know the standstill,
the mute glare, how pain’s
iron scales and writhing hair––
tusks, claws, wings––
kidnap a mirror.
No hour, no year
since our cut-short visit
(car warming in the turnaround)
turned to stone.