I first met t.k. at a coffee shop;
his windy eyes were in a moon hue;
of course we’d always talk about the i’s but for a baby it makes sense.
He was two yet not born.
I was twenty-eight doing graduate work at the local, chain coffee shop.
It was delicious what I drank; and I forgot to ask for my favorite type of tea.
He couldn’t move yet because he was in a bind; and so he jumped and lunged forward; more like a martial artist than a ballerina.
and stuck his hand in his pocket like I hadn’t taught him yet. denting the middle of his carriage backward; like I hadn’t taught him yet.
On his brow I saw math and no physics; the dream of life; that wouldn’t form; I saw his death in the gray tone of his skin. His legacy not quite my sight more appropriate. What’s the difference. It’s an inflection; I knew he was mine; and I’d never wanted any kids. At twenty-eight completely established I was nowhere ready to start a family; I thought maybe if I had to have mine; I’d wait till I was forty. When I’d no longer hardly be a woman. A foaming cup of hot beds and lava; like a child’s game ; what can stander would bring life into this world; it’s not quite related to abortion. You know it’s yours and or real when they can’t judge you for your beauty; for beauty. I knew his name: is saw it in staircases of houses I hadn’t yet visited; and in chapters of books belonging to police officers that wait in prison for better times; missing rain and fire; but not dew. It’s still in the cells.
A gray blue child not moving maybe we’d be able to avoid pain; I couldn’t imagine him near any of my many partners; I couldn’t imagine him anywhere near anybody different from my brothers. I knew they’d never beet here. In stripes of salad plates in rucksacks of no joy; is the bliss that they’d never meet. It’s way to form protection; a child would be traumatic to meet until the next world.
It’s an easy dump to throw even the most magical of children onto your brother. You could be relieved that they’d go through their struggle instead of you going through their struggle. A collection on the tax of brotherhood; you could think of skies and clouds; and not of children on staircases jump lunging forward dented with hands in pockets; and no kites dead with the childhoods of hope; all dreams achieved. We are now in belthood; where the women are the men, also. Where the men are less men compared to the real women; until they become women also; like childhood; and Story.
It’s always in those psychic books; you gotta love those. The windy chime that isn’t really there until the Lord bounty places it there; but you hear it anyway, in the rung! generation; and the white mantle on a wooden mantle; you only see the color if you can look inside; the color of the outside caking or not; white; The wind shaking it; and the inside warm and safe like the cleanest of bushes; and of course you don’t think of sense; we’re too far down the generation hands on the regulator carpet only a swiff when tie-ing your shoes unlaced; is the background the moon’s hue i. It’s time to move forward; and we’re already read. Born yet; doesn’t really matter for us. There’s no planning. Just emergency exists; and the coil of an older look; without the age of youth; and generation; it’s a little trifle without trifle. Yum, I love to eat; is now o.k. to say.
theme music citation: florence + the machine my boy builds coffins