It Won’t Be Long

As a child I used to dream about being useful
Now all I have is my black hair like silk on the wind,
a handful of gathered pollen

Every April 30th my father grieves for tenderness, for laughter
for his silhouette against the black tar of the road
Sometimes my face flickers and his face sparks on

Yesterday visions pressed against my eyes,
the sleeping waves of live rays
and pink glass pressed against my eyes,
the gauzy fingertips of the sun
in the land where no moon buzzes

I am coming to the limbs of my own yellow love
You may tell the trees of my return

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