( NOTES
my son’s many imaginary deaths have to happen daily as he goes from bath to bed as a bruise as a faded god wrongly recalling the color blue and he laughs and we scrape our worry across our shallow knowing and the sound it makes invents a term for the sound it makes and he laughs and is deeper than we can go and our touch leaves us and does not report back and we say please don’t please tell him
kingsoftrain 
Leave a comment