his kids wear bibs 100% silk that stay white through the day

he’s growing wild orchids in the deepest darkest circles under the eye

he makes jelly out of dry words with broken fingers

his dragons sit fetch and roll before breakfast

he can pat his head and rub his belly while sawing buttons for orphans

he can spin plates on the tip of his mind

his books have pages no One can (re)turn

he looks like a stolen Picasso behind a kitchen cabinet

he spits diamonds in fate’s face and walks off whistling

his universe locked itself in and threw the key through my eyes


*


every night I’m getting interviewed by the wind, with my will cuffed, with a moon in my face but I’m saying nothing...