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by C. Dylan Bassett


As boys, we watched stars—

little boxes
collecting space


Father, you sent flies
to heal.

No more bread
in the wind-breadth.

All that honey run dry.

It takes a while
for a child

to know the noise
of his name—

a language without
tone or tongue.


Forgive me,
I did not know that

then we were dropping
little stones

where now
we must climb

to get back home.