Dams of crayon break like salt
on the desk of my brother.

He is scribbling his whole life
crafting his whole life
bringing his whole life
voicing his whole life without mirror
tongue-twisted by fate to make
the call of melody deform into meaning,
dissolved into several.

My brother has a feeling
which will last for ages.
He crouches over it and bashes it
into fern-patterns where the whip landed, on canvas.
He sorts by strike until the colors have faded
into a different weave.