crack your bones,
against carpet and stone
feel what your father felt when he first
looked into your eyes
and sought the precursor for disappointment
tested lulls gone soft to birth
the knowledge that six out of seven breaths
will leave you hurting

that echoing moment, a
series of reconciliation with your vessel
when you stand for the first time
in a while
and your entire frame is a chorus of
drugged up angels
snapping fragments back into place
a symphony of human abstraction
and systematic normality all the same