The small boy said "it's time to go home"
with an adult serious stride he guided me
down the hall to a door that was warped
by a network of veins coursing
with wine or poison. "This was the way in"
he turned with a cruel smile, "but now, you
have to cut your way out."
On the other side, the voice of a woman
like the sound of two rivers rushing together
in a storm, somewhat buffering spine-cracking
booms, she whispered "Remember, she too
was once white cloud"
and she cried for me like thunder.
Now the boy, a man, sits quiet beside me
on a park bench feeding pigeons to seed,
his hand swaying methodic like a clock
ticking, his eyes counting each speckled,
gray bird... as if one were missing.