Can I be the dawn this time? I swear
I will not mess it up, nor shortchange folks
by muting all the bird song in the clear.
Hard hat, thick gloves, I have the lot,
have memorized the chorus, and its pitch,
its entrance, and its exit off by heart, its
spreading wide I mastered one long shift,
textbooks, checklists I’ve got it nailed,
the tools the craft store sells in crinkly wrap,
(See figure 1, page 40, note the caps),
the kiln where sun is baked, and rises up,
Check – rope, checkbook, a fountain pen.
We are twin brothers, but I won’t defer
and let you hone the honeyed sapling’s bark
or tinker with the first light of the Earth.
Broke back, beat up, I catapult the sun.
and steer it with my thigh’s circumference
as jockeys do the Ascot winner home.
You are the wonder, work aurora’s truth,
work props, pull ropes. You paint the comet’s tail,
while I, the ordinary thunder, slick with angst,
am quarry for the forces, pulled apart,
put back again by dire loveless hands.
I am your brother, give me this one chance.