Sunday, March 11, 2007

PTEROSOMETHINGOROTHER









my son goes into the ground

what connects us is only
this rope

as always a big scissors
a prehistoric bird
a pterosomethingorother
wincing in the moon’s light

an armful of cuts
my son’s and mine
turn like leaves or birds
become scars

1 comment:

Razovsky said...

sweet one.

Stu