Precipice of Questions

He stood with the bride of quietness
on the precipice of questions
and whistled the music of the spheres.

His bride wore cropped pants
and a paisley top. She was the summer
of 1979 and the winter of his discontent.

He talked to her of navigation, excavation,
irrigation, nolo contendere. She heard him
with impunity and a sawtooth grin.

Above their heads, birds watched planes
stumble through maneuvers. A war was on.
He enlisted her fierce indifference.

What can be manufactured in the time
jettisoned by the flashing of the past?