S&S

If we glance upon ourselves there is always the light of our dearest child's face. Our night huts left alone in the dark, winding away. We consider our path, but still abstain from this wanton task. Our night and day dreams lay low on the floor wisping into the overcast.

Now we know (again?) of the great Jew. The cinema of the child staring eyes twinkling. The state in-between. The ethos beam and fascistic feeling.

The expressive moment, one open checkbook, its associa slowly leaving our span. Now the industry titan, our love long lost. Tinker Bell stares dead-eyeing. Our father a mean old son, our mother a fruitless kind.

How does this all translate? Is this our solace from the sky? To where does it go?

A familiar face emerges yet again--the one from just before? Or from back longer? A window peered into and through. Just mother, upon Christmastime. An overcoat lost. Just a boy, on the run from scatters and spring.