Papyri

We lie tangled—

you, asleep, and I,

still as Nike

(headless, armless, too).

Tungsten

My little bother’s got a loop
of Tungsten buried inside;

thirteen, this silent wonderboy,
and beautiful and silly (still!).

His tectonic plate project
half-convinced me he had
made the world, engraved
faults into cardboard-earth
with scissors, named the dry
land and all the wet stuff sea.

Little brother, I say—but
I never find the words with
him—I say,

little brother—not so little,
maybe, but the name won’t
change now—I say,

little brother: unearth yourself,
and be silly (still).



(The first thing I have written in a long, long time!)