abt that old jazz man's boy: willie adams

so admirably, he carries the
dead weight of his
father's oldest shotgun
on his shoulder--

ripped by the bends of light,
shaded deep & dark in thick
spaces--a relict of a wet and rocky
cave god,
moaning into only his soul

so cold seems
the snow in the wires
of wind, so
strong the new man's
skin,

so he, a man
who so admirably cleans the sands
of battlefield, again,
chases the boys home
who try
running through his dead lawn
catching lightning bugs