That night, we had to learn again

the rules of long division,
 

diced for the dead in monochrome–

stained and contrast-washed,
 

caught on the way to where we are.

A head turning, a smile slipping:
 

shuffled, dealt into hands, face-up. 

Each one a random present, now a past
 

coming through like background signals

on the radio, failing.  It wasn’t the wine,
 

but sleep came to me more easily  

than I had any right to expect.