the boy, who looks all soft & angel,
doesn’t make it out alive.
the volcano gets him. a sudden
hurricane. he’s swallowed by quicksand
or other untimely acts of god.
i have to tell you that before everything,
before i let you know that his left
hand is larger than his right,
or how he counts among everything
insects as wonderful things with
before i tell you about the music,
his quiet stories about his dad’s
brown guitar, you have to know first
that he dies.
when he dies it’ll be his eyes we
notice, the way they shutter suddenly
like the blinds on a broken window of
an abandoned house.