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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.