Saturday, April 30, 2011

A Small Heaven

Give so that you may not be rejected.
We don't know how to treat ourselves.
You will find us in shallows, ashes I always need to talk.
You and I count on substance. He walks with a book
that weighs more than any you have in your knapsack.
She sweats through the first few pages of a letter.
My father is a reformer. My mother weaves the family crest.
The clues are well-placed. We have not succeeded.
I am tired of looking at things that are well-made.
God is not composed. Let us pray.

My best friend doesn't know how to spell.
My father is a generalist. I am a reformer.
We are both guests and housekeepers in this hotel.
As Dad, he struggled with me until math was simple.
As son, I forgot the pressure of the classroom.
The bricks of the schoolhouse passed through me
on the way to the library. I read underneath the painting
of a pen on the stage. It is only a painting I remember.
I prepped my walls and felt black instead of white.
I went to the fairground and heard the music
of my boiling days. I was a soldier without a battle. Let us pray.

My father told me to run with moderation.
My father told me to bicycle until I healed my weakness.
I played games until they began to seem like a classroom.
My dad and I played tennis. We followed baseball.
I sought to make a masterpiece in art. It took me years to learn
that repetition is an element in art. Let us pray.

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