A dress on a body with a face that breaks into
a smile like mine. My little stick figure boy.
My son, hot-headed in the yellow sun. Fum-
ing at the tips of your fingers right before the
turn of the magic trick. Conjurer. Illusionist.
Take a bread loaf then make a thief. This
wave, then—look!—you in the eye of a crow.
Were that you were only ever a bud but no. O
bud. To observe you bloom. What unforgiv-
able cruelty to imagine you turn, wrinkle, go
to seed. I will long have been at sea or so they
say. Let me get to it then: I will die & what I
would give to unknow that you will too.
