The father and the son are still in a boat
out there with spinnakers curved like pillows where
they can rest their heads.
Spin-drift turns into curlews, confused by the weather news.
The sky is a fish packed in ice.
There is a low sun and stiff silver wands on the horizon,
and the rudder groans as the father and the ghost pass on.
No son on a grade, but a migraine headache,
an angry ring on the pavement.
The boy wonders, why a famous tyrant marched his men
into a blizzard.
And how the Russians burned Moscow with only one candle.
He sees three choices, join, kill, or run away.
What would his grandmother say?
Blessed are you when people hate you and denounce you
for choosing eternity.