Ignored by the dark tethered horse
and the ghostly pig,
the first of the day’s cannons,
has startled him awake.
His spindly un-calloused hands
clutch his throat
beneath a face
from which the moonlight
has not yet withdrawn,
a face dawning saltgrey
from a dream where nothing
stood for anything else.

Sockless in tap-dancing shoes,
a toppled, silenced minaret,
his disheveled shirt
and discarded panama hat
unfit for the harshness ahead.
He lies with his back to the east
indifferent to the awakening pink sky.