Tears run the gully-of-straight-forty-scowl...

          In murals:

   I remember—
I’m intimate with my life.
            All of it.
      Its benign beginnings;
Its blatant half-man self-shovelings.

      Its excuses.
            My quietly o’er-anviled strife.
Its insistent reach-for-honor.
  Losing e’en my very last things—
        Thrice; we live to be fledglings.

  Cut lose the stars—
Diamond-dream hail.
            Hell with a windshield, we were on foot,
      Brows a’scream with soot.

            Dumbass-kids possessed
With the one freakin’ wickedest
  Idea in all we were, all that mattered:
            Together, untattered.

        Greying now;
  Tears run the gully-of-straight-forty-scowl.
Mine’s a sheepish grin, though;
            Whatever four decades of misses
      Stand to mystify,

I’d dare that I’ll
      Yet lose a tooth ‘midst a fight that might,
Flower from that fly-a-kite-root
    Of eighties soot:

          My girls.

                                                    —for K. Rhyan

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