A boy, and
his severed degrees of escape
His father
the dour brick maker;
There was
nothing so concrete as his doubt—
His mother,
dead of heat exhaustion
shivering through to her dirtbed
And quakes in that space still,
Turning her grave
His sombre,
silly violin
The sudden,
sullen rain
The songs
end half-played
In that
dubious construction his home
His grade school teacher,
with his flushed out faces
Always slurs
his speech;
But a boy accents
the things that matter:
In this
language family is one syllable
and
chocolate is three.
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