Let him walk home
With a swallow and a Sunday river
Pinned to his vest; sleeve
Dragging in the thirsty dirt.
Let him walk home
With a thresh of woodshed vine
Dangling over his dead hands.
Dead hands? Why not dear hands?
There's burbled cotton and turgid oranges.
There's a surplus of velvet and a loose strip of rain.
The door opens inward.
The mistakes are come from a little resin we don't bother with.
Polish the box, and take the tablet cold.
The wind has his applause to get to.
Don't delay or trouble the migrations
And the migraines and the immigrant farmers
Who fetch barrels-full.
The sun is mawkish, the blades of a rumbling helicopter
Chop by; its grim lines have no center.
But you see, that man over there with the metal skull
And pigeon-plated heart, let him walk home.
He’s tired and is nowhere born. He'll never get there.
The air split, a menacing tether disparages his decency.
But let him there already. He'll never get there.
Let him walk home in the blue echo of his lips.
On the marble of his face: two wet, falling wings.
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Comments about this poem (Time Being by Adam Fitzgerald )
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