Our favorite
brothers? Tell and
telling, carry
minutes up and over.
Run past the
bishop’s hill. Trace the air, blinded by
photons. Or remember
butterflies in a box, but
the box isn’t real,
so.
So stand to tell
the day go to hell.
Gather under
the pews while clocks lose track of time. How the day
owes us nothing but
vacated promises. So the
accident of breath
at the back of the
throat. So the need to have wings instead
of arms, an ageless fiction
inspired by hospital dreams
when the moon
goes down.
