A long lying down

Kid dead there. My neighbor’s boy
took off to the dwindled stars
not knowing how to count them or
draw them in likeness to himself:
splayed as only the young splay
on rougher berber than his crib,
was talking foam, you can tell,
as he pressed his brain down the well
that drew him in its likeness:
swirling, flat at the bottom
where greener things sit stoned.
How poor he grew in his palace
of noise and glance and solitude
that drew his laughter and his swig,
all forfeit, him happy now
learning to draw and stare
as geniuses do when they cannot live.


~ by Jeremy on January 22, 2011.

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