I am pushing a bike uphill, my brother is pushing a wheeled horse-
we are late for the birth of my sister’s doll. for the tea that protects us.
sort of grief
a sort of human grief
in the dog’s mouth-
a stick man’s arm, or leg, or crutch. something
from the world of sticks.
in an open field
where one can more easily picture the struck man as a boy obsessed with walking
loss of the family dog
be alone. enter snowfall as a heavy breather in a white dress window shopping for a red.
know
that in between heaven and hell, there is war. hell thinks it a nightmare, heaven thinks it hell. hell sleeps more than your sister in love. heaven counts warriors and can’t put an angel on why the numbers keep changing.
as increased chatter is good for morale, call your mother and say you are her appetite.