The pulling weed

A copperhead is very deadly
attacking my boy. I once saw
a man wrinkled by his perfume
talk to my boy for minutes
on end like feathers in the bush.
Every sigh was his.
Where I was built of concrete,
inclined to rest, he spoke
an ancient tongue of silk
on ragged, solid slaves
as talcum on me blew away.
You did not chase your children!

And their mansions were old-timey,
tucked away in an abdomen
stolid as drowning ice
a girl pulls down her sleeve
as her boyfriend watches. That
is a sour mouth in the morning,
where you know the doves perch on!
A foot, a fucking foot will not
speak his peace, as at church,
where kids smoke their lungs out.

To grow up in the middle
of a bear, and a bear fiercer
than a poet’s lily should
even throw him up, but
no time is sensuous, and no
man a functional puzzle
if his buildings do not test.
They are his patience and muzzle,
this boy who does not rest.

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~ by Jeremy on February 20, 2011.

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