I had a dream that my mother's

country was on fire, & I was six

feet away from it. Now that I have

a thorn in my flesh. Now that the

clouds are slow moving. Now that

all my dead have the imagination

of a hundred kindred souls. I can

feed my voice to the brittle dry air

of these prairies. Not all skies are

readable; like yesterday, I swear I

heard the clouds deride me in their

thunderous peals. I am filled. I am

filled with all the deaths everything

I love has left me. Unbottled hunger

seeks to claim me. My brother's face

nestling under the pave of death's

garden. A little boy plucks its flowers.

Struts after the gazelles in his stomach.

I find it harder to forgive the room, so

I offer my feet to the dog-nose wetness

of the road. Nothing fills the body with

light than a returning. A sprinkling of

salt on this vain heart. A cannonade

shredding everything inside of me.

Pink petals make the wildest nightmare.

For everything beautiful is doomed to a

kind of finiteness. Nothing blooms in

the body's tabernacle. I still have this

dream of you, brother, coming to me

like you never left—cleaving cicadas and

revealing to me a polaroid of scars.

Why do you come to me with a mesh

of nails ploughing your palms? Are you

Jesus? You coo with the brown pigeons.

You spin on the navel of a pure storm.

There are no stars to caress the keening.

No salt to sweeten the wounds. So stay,

or leave a meaning on the fossiled sands.

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