When is a self its surface breaking.
My boy crushes husks with his plastic cup
and my thought of skin seared down
a middle, and periodic rising
from dirt, tunnels cored along the sides
of long roots. We pull them
where they cling, non-things.
Summer rattles its incomplete arc:
bee balm, flagrant purple, phlox
lineate the patio.
If a child was missing his eyes and wings,
others came with their hands
to guide him. Rocked all sequence
of floors in a dark house,
and fans whirred their sound where
he could sleep, he lay outside you.