May contain mature subject matter
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1999
If I were my brother
and my father's skin hung loose about me,
if he could see his son's supple flesh
or the skin-line marking pale from burnt.
If my twin hovered airily
and smote me in anger
and I could wash
and the lake-rocks broke enkinetic
befriend my thousand pores and wear me like a coat
and the air my aromas
and the water my seed.
If I could turn in and in and in
and I and my brother rush into the free
of the sky of my head,
If I could pass over the beauty and the wanting,
and penetrate my inner self with
my own scythe and strew at last.
Adventure
Snap-twigs and thorn-spikes slap against me
as I ramble the tumbled creek-edge
in search of a play-lost shoe.
There a half-mile rising
my son and daughter huddle as color-specks
against the hill's green.
Their shared topic is what?
A silly obsession that after-years
will call silent reflection?
Red-wings among flit-weeds
each-to-each bring screech-calls
and over our heads summer clouds be calmed
in the late noon sky.
Why has the west-sun flattened our
dimensions into primal colors
whose brilliancy nears overwhelming?
My son jumps up and when he dashes into the dark green creek-cover
what swells in me suddenly is this loss-pain.