In the jungle

         a muggy umbrella

slumps above the canopy,


in its soggy blur

         feeding equally

every germ

                   and each gene.


My father

         built Manhattan

to stay separate

                   from the embers of a forest,

his sleep daily

         deprived by the bugler’s

jeer of Reveille.


We’re imbued

         with a dank mist

that merges clams

                   and hawks

and seeds.


The dew of our lungs,

         our humidity

calms fire,

                   bungles flint locks

and bombs.


All things into all things.


My father stripped the forest

         so’s he could stay dry,

sleep peacefully,

                   though I’ll admit

in tears,

         he never burned for me.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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