The Search for the Impossible Boy
He saw a dead man for the first time.
            And took off down.
                        The steps out into the field out.
Into the woods the people said fine he’ll.
            Be fine let him run.
                        It off let him run he’ll be fine.
They set out in the morning things falling.
            All over his mother sleepwalk.
                        Shipwrecked in her black dress spine.
Twisted from sweeping the porch her wings busted.
            Heartbeats run out of numbers.
                        A throng of hankies on their necks all the men.
With a tendency to beg your pardon each step.
            Repentant crumbling into another.
                        Hour of toppled houses people drained of a grave.
And their medicine sounds for days they walked.
            With dogs even flashlights at night.
                        Insides white from the weight and somewhere he limps.
Dressed in corduroy pants holding ear to the tracks.
            Refusing to come back from his own sort.
                        Of search for interstellar gossamer for concrete.
Grief the house won’t breathe the day of rain inside.
            The kitchen the powdered light.
                        Like sawdust dawn like well water through fence wire.
An airplane of angels storming the temples.
            Saying here he was here.
                        With a mountain in his mouth he was seven.
Hundred berries holding breath dragging buckets.
            Of mud the riverbanks licked.
                        Dry his lips singing here he was here he was here.
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