Tell a god while you are crouching under
your half of the bunk bed. Your brother
might not come home. You know
a boy who knows Hesporous is the opposite
of an evening star. It’s cloudy and what he said
means nothing to you. Place a hacksaw
twice under your rib. Watch it in the wing mirror
of a car that hasn’t arrived yet.
Tell an absent fairy you had a wish about today.
It listens by making aeroplane sounds
for a thousand miles. You’re just talking
to half a jaw, hand held,
that knows wood-anatomy,
that can’t answer back. Driveway light
cuts out. Wait for Hesperous.
The cerealbox bland-surprise is a sponge
astronaut toy, never shrinking,
not even in hours underwater.
Find the puffy faced boy of the first prayer
eating from a bowl.
Don’t tell him you were scared.
Syllable Syndrome 