by A. A. Vincent
All the brothers are ghosts
One escaped into a prodigal son
The next lost his body, buried within him
& he? he misplaced his memories in a cage
That one? he can’t see the sun around him
& another slipped into the bloody pavement
& ‘bout him? he sleeps under the construction of dreams that aren’t his
I spoke to a 7th & his temporal lobe had a wheel lock on it
All the brothers are hollow names in the air
I've been offering peace to their sorrow-slips
& so far their eyes have taken it in pieces
I wonder how to run a golden thread through broken brothers, pulling them together
I look up how to suture-turn mercy, so they clap their hands again
But I don’t know how good my offerings are
Will the stitches hold for them when their underpasses are overpasses?
I’m on my way to the library passing by orphaned doves & dirty nests
