Brother I do not know who you are.
Though like a pious gypsy I pray
to odd winds and set down
curious cards that I might
     grow to know you better.
     Little Moses, stolen in the
     night without your blanket,
     without your breath. How is
it some wandering seed
like you can stay my
watery mind? Sistered with a white
gem in a secret tide, you
     surface long after the
     scene is closed; you follow
     me home and sing like
     a thousand years of
May beneath my windowsill.
But as I say, the scene is
done, swallowed mother firefly
by the fluorescent night. So
     gather your things: these
     thoughts do not become,
     nor would they ever become.
     You’ve a hand like kite string
And I'd never hold on. All my
cards gutter in the wind
and the candles cannot be read,
not as dark as I've allowed it be.

I hear a song my brother sings
that echoes in the rock
from which my soul was hewn and that
shall never be forgot.