the weather has its legs on my chest.
once my wife had two hands
on her throat. we managed to pry
off one hand. it left the imprint of half
a butterfly. i am not
in the magnitude of life.
at least not in the way i want to be.
mothers cry sometimes. there are two
men at a bar who want to ask
each other if they really believe
in love. i do they would both say, or
at least i want to.
does your mother cry sometimes. how
does the grass stay green
under the snow. i want to meet a man
who walks with both his arms
held out to hug the stars when he walks
through the mountains at night.
mom, wake up. mom please wake up. mom don't die. for god's sake don't die. mom. mom. mom. mom. mom. mom.