(kyle Watson)

break a hand over an open flame his hands are as wide as all outdoors
and his lips are quiet, pursed into a hum of movement, a hum of old
distracting songs filled with nonsense chorales, and he does not understand
music but that is all right

because he can gallop for days if he
wanted, and he can discourse about gray
hairs, about blue eyes, about broken windows
and stairways, twisting up towards the light
fixtures in quiet metal, and he is

large, as wide as all outdoors, even his voice is large and filled
with all the ductile ebullience of a vertical conflagration, he runs

and runs
and talks about running when he sleeps
and is very bad at remembering things
when he is drunk, or when he has spoken
hours of foreign languages, and when he

walks inside, he brings all the galloping
cries of out-
doors, between his large broken hands, that bare
not outer scars, that are cupped in the
fecund earth,

in the half-
life of stable latin elements, spelled differently in other places,
where he has never slumped off to a large
and untroubled sleep