in the crush of
early morning fog
in this country of
missing fathers i am
waiting for myself

the dead have
all been born as
birdsong here and the
god of starving dogs
paces my street with a
young girl’s blood
staining his

i let the curtain
fall back quietly

let the light
of the poem flicker
and gutter out
but always a half-beat
too late

the house is on fire
without warning

the baby is awake and
and all the doors are
locked from the
other side

this is the story i
you telling

the final psalm in the
book of rusted chrome
and i never asked
to sing it

never asked to
have it sung
to me

there is still
so much silence i
am hoping to hear

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