Friday, September 26, 2008

My First Death: The High Window

White moths rise like steam: dawn
bright as a headache and I'm still

breathing in a birdcage of gristle, tendon --
lawn clippings up my nose, whole except

for an absent molar, my brother dancing
his red yo-yo above my face, singing

his song about the bees, the one that repeats,
the one he always gets wrong.

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