I brush my keen father feather against the flesh of the night,

the air inside your vowel sound gives way to the blaying and bleating of this goat beard.

breathless, suddenless, thunderous one-ness of this compositionality, positional martyrdom, sacrificial bartering at the market stalls of our unison.

beautiful brick wall, another chantilly cream and mustard-licking crispbread of a morning.

I hold my meek mother, beak and all, until the light fades.