my father is on the run.  before leaving, he pinched my mother’s cheeks and said there ain’t a buzzard knows your son is a dream.  his letters mention a clone upset at being homeless.  his handwriting has a sound to it.  one I can nearly recreate if I chew on my fingers after a hot bath.  the last dry morsel I had was my tongue.  in a recent game, god’s tongue was a campfire.  my mother doesn’t disappear but to make food look for her hands.  rainfall we understand as god’s census.  next thunder, I’ll gather chickens for his beard.