I say things above my son when he is underwater. I say things in a rage. I pretend I am nearby the brother I am closest to. he would forgive me. my body has always been outdated. my son’s body is plinked. not unlike a piano beside which siblings hug. there is a sorrow I’ve forgotten. not unlike the recording equipment one leaves in a dream. it is a stretch, the tornado siren momentarily belonging to a church bell. more of one that my son is a cracked bullhorn. ghost town debris.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
I say things above my son when he is underwater. I say things in a rage. I pretend I am nearby the brother I am closest to. he would forgive me. my body has always been outdated. my son’s body is plinked. not unlike a piano beside which siblings hug. there is a sorrow I’ve forgotten. not unlike the recording equipment one leaves in a dream. it is a stretch, the tornado siren momentarily belonging to a church bell. more of one that my son is a cracked bullhorn. ghost town debris.
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