Our brother is dying
His tired bones grinding to dust.
Even without a body
he yells with great fire in his voice.
Enough rage to place us beside him.
Only we’re not ready to die.
In our youth we were both rebels,
not unlike father dear studying
at the public bar. The earth turned
to bring us closer, but polity,
love, family life
only drove us further apart.
*
Years pass without letter or text,
minutes and millennia
of SOMESTHESIA, washing away
MEMORY
as if the miracle of blood
belonged in some other story.
Now we must stand with the moon
as she writes her cold refrain
in the clouds. No more the outcast
growling at the stars. No more tears
of forgetting and pain.
Now the weathervane whirls in the wind.
Reinvents time.
