Hey, number seven audio poem, going over the waterfall, more than halfway home, no kids on the airplanes but some old buzzards, hey.
7.
I see a dark
haired boy
with a crooked
neck
in front of me
on an
airplane.
I think bedsores.
Bedouin barbs
baroque
busted.
he says
oh my good mother,
my iridescent
candle.
imagine the world for him
as collected in
dust,
open windows,
dark and dark
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