Anonymity’s a death that never comes

He was the unpublished among us

Of twig and twine, I made a man.

I’m ready, I’m ready

How is it that life in bloom feels foreign to the process?

You swan-glide, and make me too…

The grass I planted’s sprouted, and I tend to it by slice and sluice

In heat, the muscles sore flood the gray with red

They say it’s foreign blood I spilled

He’s seen waist-n-up mid-river, washin’ out his skivvies