silence
but for my poppa’s clock
now set to spring
climbing up
climbing out of myself
burrowing into an unidentifiable comfort
present most times of the day
though imperceivable during the dour hours of dreams
such concentration
exhaling any hesitation to trust myself
come the stroke of light
birds
write some poems that i can give him ok (but they’ll all be about the hims) good idea bad idea no good twinning and losing
peering through thick glass your back to me is waiting any news at all? running down broad steps into your brotherly arms crying without breath!
is it the ticking of the third hand or the faucet dripping onto discount bulk blueberries both measuring time “going in circles” as he would
you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love
how long it’s been. haven’t been counting days haven’t counted backwards on the calendar. haven’t bothered to reread my own words. haven’t been missing you
your blue eyes and crooked lippy smile which i inherited that tiny soft bristle brush for your basically bald head the white corvette a campfire cards
