He fights a good fight. You can say what you want about that boy. But he fights a good fight. It's okay if you don't understand him. No one does, not even himself. But he fights a good fight. And all around him butterfly wings freeze and old women hack up mucous. Baby birds wait in a wet November nest for a mama bird that never comes. He blows kisses, with a mouth that limps when it smiles, to sinners just like him. He's not always right, but he fights a good fight. Waters his garden with tears, reaches with scarred hands into bushes full of thorns, pulls out berries and gives them to people with thin and tender skin. You can say what you want about that boy. But he fights a good fight.