remember, beauty. At lunch
I study the fuel tech, how her face burned
clean by the wind matches her hands
outside of her folded work gloves,
hands like a kind of telegram
saying you would die for this.
I will sleep in the freezer
attached to a kind of pipe,
will pee in the funnel welded
onto the barrel, will try not
to explain at breakfast how
by being there she makes me
wince three or four times
a minute. I want to write to
somebody in charge, say, go easy,
we’re new. Later after dinner
I ask about the dog
star, what night here looks
like at night. She won’t
say, but when I ask
what she likes best about
being here, she smiles,
looks away, looks back—
the tilt.
The History of Luck
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