Alphabet

Late getting on here

Allow me the faith of streetlights in the

broad set of this pasted night and

call me voiceless since I won't speak to hear your

dying childhood speaking your voice

elderly, like I could

feed you elixir and again watch you

grow, like a mother, I'll want to see your

hands stretch into mine and your

identity lay itself comfortably between your teeth

just to know exactly who you are

kaleidoscope piecework from the drawers of

last-hour artists shuffling through junk or gold to 

make you, I'll want to know exactly what it is that made you