I have held the shattered alphabet
corrected in what I hope
were your crying eyes. She
sang to me as if she wanted for me
to be still the same. Now
it has begun to rain. The sound of it
is easy to understand as
she cuts my hair.
The inhuman
humor of goat screams.
Nights like these I am a shore
for music to wash up on. Song that pulls
away from the droning of tree frogs.
This one a march of angels.
This one a clenched jaw dredging
up a clamor of church bells. Dishes
clatter. There’s not enough chaos
in this house to start a fire. Long
live the king. Words that
rumble at the sight of rain.
It’s not for them
to see you
ruffian
jabbed with birdsong
ticklish
if they can
it’s only the dusty
almost laughter
of the dead
be kind to them