Breadcrumb #440

MATTHEW D. ROWE

I am a slap bag of tears.
A couple of birds tear apart
a beef stick.
My eyes well up
with the pungent August air.

My grandfather sits up.
Partly pumps his own lungs again.
I crumble in pure joy.
The pummeling cosmos
a little less an anvil.

The infant takes his first steps
in the park,
smile-kisses the dewy grass.
No spoken language yet formed
for his parents’ explosion.

A familiar smile leaps
across the street.
Impeccably timed talk
of tethers and floating.
Whether or not the two collide.

I am a magenta-chested mess,
in the barber shop.

The magic camera is accurate.
A rhythmic buzzing.
A cluster of assurance.

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