one day my son is dying, the next he is not, and the next he is.  day four:  prayer is dismissive, but welcome.  whose past is how we left it?  body is delivered twice.  beginning and end.  nostalgia and wardrobe.  middle eats everything.  it snowed and I thought my blood was melting.  could be the way you reason that happens for a reason.  I was a kid when mouse was a kid.  there’s no hope and I hope.  

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my son’s weight is a cricket on a piano key.  it’s more than I can handle that god gave us god.      

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aside:  we don’t come out faking our death, but are born because birth can’t sleep

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aside:

I study lullaby
and lullaby
bruise    

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it takes four juveniles to recruit his thumb.  his fist has been called:  hitchhiker practicing yoga in a junkyard.  I cannot visit the instant ruin that forgiveness creates.

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sickness in the young is god’s way of preventing nostalgia from becoming the god I remember

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I was beautiful but now I’m ugly. (now) being the most recognizable symbol of the present. this is the silence I speak of. my son says (more ball) and you hear (moon bone). he is very sick. his moon has bones.

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the disappearance surrounding said event.  a horse belly-up in water’s blood.  see telescope.  also, cane of the blind ghost. magician, maybe, on a rabbitless moon- oh cure.  

oh silence afraid to start a sentence.  

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in the photograph a fist is cut from, a kneeling family of five is putting to bed

the unremembered
present.  

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traced, perhaps, for a terrible circle-

today was mostly your hand.