little miscellanea

A boy grows old
not by the hour
or the day the year
but by the deep soul tired months
that drag

The moth on a pyre of scroll
doomed to deem his own flight
he is flushed, rushed and jubilant
a bed of feather and vanity

If old was tired and tired old
age would graph beautiful
time grafted to growing
a buck moth bucking hot air

Still
a man grows old, soul tired
parchment burning
deep before deeper
dragging the fire
fanning the flame

Let the grass grow
Unfettered to your blade
And Glad in the shine

Neuter these neutral grounds
No more; Let them wild
As forgotten graves
Grave in their spiteful celebration

• a simple matter of conviction
• the window of irrelevance
• a little anyplace
• the pattern of home
• the unshifting star
• a special place in hell

Your blood runs through me
Keeps me warm
On cold nights