xliii
i tell you, brother—are you listening?—you are
high-up, up-high, and, just now, up-tight, but, there
are sharp flowers growing low near water, little
blazes flashing where the green grass gives-up
suddenly to dry black stones plowed-up in a seemingly
random anger by a relentless sea, jigging in the wind,
october, color-catch of the sky before night,
they speak
in you
curling
feet burning on each war-mapped ground
‘will this be my end?’
‘Is this where I am?’
they keep
an ember
as the world goes cold, jaw-slacked,
weird triumph of night—
you are the holy fucking fight!
* * * *
happy birthday, i stared at a river today
(your mother’s hospital behind me) & thought steadily
of you. (what life have you had away from water?) we
are two children of square cakes, molasses, hens
running, buckling loud, songs inside books, sweat of
impossible summer trees, and tales of christ; the
hard, gnarled hands of our grandfathers find some
relief in our efforts to say something simple, maybe
beautiful, true, before we’re old.
happy birthday, brother.
the psychotic bushman
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