Youth is you,
O brother mine.
Golden clock hands choose
Angles,
acute/obtuse
Considering the dial,
as does
your smile.
Sometimes it’s ten:fifty,
or conversely, four:forty six
in your face-plain
the granite, too
awaits a turn
to be chiseled.
I swore before I’d never
leave this shanty
Never would consider
the land o plenty
Of city –
woe it’s demons, ghouls; their
wills ferocious, all
rightly await me –
Yet perchance a gift, a kiss,
an iron sentry –
your tempered steel hands
Which hesitate over me
I’ve learned that wolves, clever
pack hunters, will outrun,
and outsmart me
Eat me; jump me
might mate, me – tho my
willingness will arrive
in lackadaisy.
So I’m running, wet as liquid river,
in my flow down to your foot levee;
hands bent and craggled,
broke-back;
shoved in chin, snugly
My orange jumpsuit:
InComplete’s the theory –
O baby, o brother, o excellent father!
Don’t scold me for want
of some molten alloy to stop
the random ticking,
the warmth from your fire –
To melt my grooved
ice lines, my iridescent shiver-chin
The time is smiling and saying
now, now! while almanac
gripes of hardening winter,
Hands often freeze
when forgotten, lie
unwound and become rigid,
Lone wolf under snow, is
Never to be sated.
