To remember
the lavaman and his other skin,
the gold burn like enveloping
the sun, what bursts he can
hold
growing bold
and maybe a little
afraid-
asking for those who may be curious,
and bold, a
little afraid, to pay cents
to touch his golden skin, to know
a little of him, this passion for
substance and for naming
objects by name, for what
they are, at least for this moment
in hopes and time
and open-aired graciousness
from the faint memory of
what human can mean,
can be
fragments float in, up,
gently, if wondered about
and the mind, with love,
invites them.
In this, his case
the red, the wings, the
otherworldly things, with what
sun buried on the inside,
consciously claiming the inside
as "mine"!
as lines are defined
and become known.
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