eremite
the frog in the hood of my coat
has I’m sure
a later meaning.
my brother is on his back in a field he calls helicopter.
I know my father’s mouth
by its embrace
of doom’s
unconnected
dot. there are sounds
I can’t make. like that of a boy
squealing
as he rubs
a toy tank
under a blanket
for a god
whose mother
a face
could love.
kingsoftrain 
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