He leans back on wooden chair
crimson with murmuring
firelight reddening thins
of cabbaged ears bright
cheeks porous to the cave-like warmth, still
bellows exhume tonically:
 two Omeprazole
nightly

Old eyes faded blue as
connect-the-dot
veins meandering rice-paper arms he
blinks and stories
rise: twelve years and strapped car-wise on a Saturday
guffawing glassed father staring
through windscreen white fogged intensity.
  you don’t know it
but

his scars still
shine undermoon and his hair didn’t
always sit curled with shame
or fear; and you’ve never seen his right
arm but maybe he’s just sensibly
modest. you lean back as
he leans outward unwound
window to pastel-coloured crowds
and patent-leather in domed shadow yells
     where was god in
                                    the death
camps?