A thin, blue dawn rims hills with orange corona, and a wound in youth is a rocket launch.

Dogma falls crisp as hoarfrost, but hormones open new worlds.

Aphorisms fall from an uncle’s lips like tough steak, but an artist’s life is lean.

Perennials die to see the sun, and the counsel of a father is magic.

What, my son? What, the son of my five fingers? What, the wet eye of our backyard springs? What? What?

Is that you, my son? Ache of my withers & rod of my stump? My son my son my seed my seed my son

I wave at black windows as the orange bus sets. My son, where do you sit? Do you see? look?

My son? My sleep’s discomfiture and my age’s disconsolation? Yes, my son? What?

You stare amazed from every bowl of stew, my son, (5) You die at the cry of every distant beast. I am the purblind Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob

Before you hung from an oak, three darts through your heart, you carved your pillar and spilled your seed, my son, my son!

A summer moon carves cold clouds, and windshield frost is the tombstone of stars.

Colorful slip jomon plate (biscuit)
Photo “Colorful slip jomon plate (biscuit)” by Yuya Tamai. Used by permission. “Trill” are my Twitters. Tweet suites from @slowreads.