Brothers

wind up
a deep breath
depth charges inhaled
exploded
exhaled
a quick belch burst from
not quite fear
from a belly weight of shared primordial soup
the sacred strings of A G T &c that
well, we are brothers

On the loft I count wingstrokes
count breezebreaths
count the tastes of the sky on my eyes
on my slipstream tumble

I have this ballast in my belly
I will not be rolled
I will not be rolled

Tonight when I "roll in" on four lumpy tires
sleep-eyed. I will not see them

Tonight, when I "crash" in mine, the third bed,
the welcome mat for each mornings sun-stretch,
I will not see them

And when morning comes a-crawling, a-clawing at
my sleepy eyes as it cat-stretches stark sun
over my pillowed head
I will perhaps not want to see them
I will, perhaps, turn over
cover my head with my old sheets
that used to be dinosaur sheets
that used to bulge under the deformed nose
of a purple pterodactyl, and the sickly
yellow of
well, they were perhaps an artists interpretation

But I will wake, eventually, and stretch as did the sun
and remember the bones of it all and see them, my brothers,
pillowed in their darker beds
where, perhaps, the sunlight has not quite yet come