Sunday, May 24, 2015


My son has burned up in the fire of himself.
He no longer responds to consciousness,
he closes himself off where he is needed.
All life is a mystery to him.
He is duct-taped, dancer, strange.

Coming from the agony of a city grid work's imprinted wounds
flickers and twitches to curve, to wing with me
the improbable beak, stubbornness of centuries
in the one breakable spine
bring me to hearth of light

O father mother me.

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