father the writer couldn’t write a character wasn’t naked.  when asked by none other than himself the writer he’d say he hadn’t time to describe the clothes being worn.  he’s like this drunk that’s been toilet-papered in a small ohio town on a former friend’s front step okay being called by boys a dumb mummy and by girls a bad bride.  son in a toppled but long since safe train car is putting bite marks on the inside of each wrist then smelling them because he doesn’t understand politics and because he wants to be found.  mother is homely and what’s left of a surgery is keeping her asleep under the newly navigated hands of ghost who’d come to fix the reception and stayed.  I am in a better place but from a room where I saw a reddened ear move high across a white wall and stop midway to become a magnet, mine, shaped like an ear.  we are currently enchanted by the rise and fall of a kite some sister flies to realize the forehead of god.