on my way to a rose, I passed your father.
he was brushing a moth
from the ageless fly
of his eye. his body
he said
had been called
by a bell. balefire,
mine body.claimed
he’d counted
ever hill
in the midwest. his bike
he’d pushed up
all three. in the late field
your father
did not ask.
I told him you were.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 1:07 AM UTC
on my way to a rose, I passed your father.
he was brushing a moth
from the ageless fly
of his eye. his body
he said
had been called
by a bell. balefire,
mine body.claimed
he’d counted
ever hill
in the midwest. his bike
he’d pushed up
all three. in the late field
your father
did not ask.
I told him you were.
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