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I'm afraid that child isn't here anymore.

He left on the fog from last February,

taking with him his red fireman hat,

his parents, all torn to rags and once loved,

and two good eyes that were scared of monsters.

Now, from the inside of this gold foil birdcage,

I—as if I, I am I no more—

live as a ground meat burger, without rages,

or a past, or those hundred other doors.

Child, if you come back, bring your baseball glove,

and all three of your red bicycles, and

cut me down if I can't see the sky,

if I can't see that sky again, of ours,

send for your slayers, send for your slayers.



forthchoming in KGB Lit