teach that kid a thing or two. You can
see how he ages from page to page, an
elegant maturation. So why me now?
It’s Thanksgiving and God is in my
pants. Yoga seems to have helped.
But that was years ago. Then he was
sleepy and amazing right here in my
cellphone. Said he wouldn’t come
home with me, come instead tomorrow.
I’m not really that fucked up but words
excite me. Some words. Some I still
have to teach him. Like tomorrow.
Which can be fleeting. Like the
solace just before dawn. A
choking night, its gesture of
death a brightening. Salted
with a few stars. A cool
gesture. The opposite
of ‘hair-raising’.
Go to sleep, kid.
Tomorrow my mouth
is sewn shut. You’ll find
what you need as I fade from
page to page. Oh, see me now,
an anchor to an invisible age,
with an elegant wisp of snow
atop my head? No?
