A tiny face of genius & tolerance brands itself organic abrupt vampire of himself, of health, stoned circle of having risen— Why the natural inclination to pet, to be affection with a soul made of bone on haunches among honeysuckle and little else to dine upon? I wasn't able to claim the backs of my legs, and for that crime, was martyred for modern day races. From these trials, I learned to be true to truths that hugged and lost and slew. Not what makes my liver stand on end but how to shake fists against the failings of insects, of lambs, of castles and the fruits of shadows that walk with us behind our backs, swampy corners of decay united. From old Jewish towns we embrace the plotted demise and welcome a ghost in born-again tatters, being all that we know and the only face that matters. Except a child from the lawn who watches, in stone. We become as ripe as an earth's waiting meat, better for sculpting to crumble a rib-eyed dust spelling death out, names that soften at moon, broken to rise again.
Amy King holding Wolfgang and Ana Božičević holding Walt Whitman