Retreat

What was it in the biting wind that reminded me of you?
the shrill way it took the day and bent it
round corners until we felt like we were looking
at the backs of ourselves
retreating,

like armies bent double
over the last cigarattes,

trudging over flinty ground in broken boots
outfought, grim and gagging on bad rations
stolen from the dead.

Or was it instead,
the way it made me hold you tighter,
wrapping the loose edge of my coat
around your hunched shoulder,
wiping the warped marble of a tear
from your eye,

not knowing if it was really the wind
that put it there?