the sting of argument partakes
in vessels that clank that
sink dust that climb up the
tale of the brother’s bother
and sink dust; the sting of the
argument pieces you pieces the
thought of you pieces the silence
that crumbs the master’s will.
the rapt of silent grief
is fire; tends to the river’s
halt and its precipice as it
bends its curvature in subtle
proportion, the decay of pun,
the plum revulsion of enamel.
sing away the kite song, daughter,
and sweep night’s will into
a clever thread that will beckon
sky and dread to lull you to sleep;
sing away then the song of the kite,
daughter, and weep night’s will
into a solemn ravine that will
hold the sun when your song is done.