Or perhaps it is you who is painting me as an
owl
my head
still separated from my child’s body
in
secret like a knife stuck under a wife’s pillow
&
who shall be intruded upon
by a
jasmine picker. The flame she said
is
quite beautiful. Moves like breathing
between
me & everyone else
such
terror at the casual
guttering
of any form. In this heat
helicopter
gunships hover to keep us cool
You
blow on my face, we scrawl warm
alphabet
still in rootball. One head reading
political
science (“Theories of the future”)
&
the other “Life with Picasso”
Then
his miserable luck, a he-goat
he
called she was taken away
by
gypsies & he was left calling
Where’s
my little white she-
goat that
I love so much?
Tiny
orange crayons scatter blazing
from
the sky, lit seed-darts star
doubt
bright or dark
We will
blossom coolly
coolly
to author Thieves of the Future
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