I’m intimate with my life.
All of it.
Its benign beginnings;
Its blatant half-man self-shovelings.
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—
Hell with a windshield, we were on foot,
Brows a’scream with soot.
With the one freakin’ wickedest
Idea in all we were, all that mattered:
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:
—for K. Rhyan