This one an affliction.
This an arboretum.
This one so naïve
he imagined himself
lit up from within
like a lantern or a mountain
on a barstool.
Some well-scrubbed
or suddenly comprehending
as if shot to film—
the small one who later died
from a hurt in his eye
received as a boy
from a stick
and this one’s leg a bit longer
from dragging by a horse,
all of them hurrying along
like calendars
or mistakes, provocations,
for instance my beard,
if you recall, like something
tremendous attacking my face
just around it.