Like the alchemists of old searching
for the secret of turning base metal to gold
and the source of the fountain of youth,
![[he was not an easy man/my father], by Ivan de Monbrison](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59aef3bacd39c38dabcb0dc2/1742351323092-0HP3VV83HD497AX6L0LC/20241228_100908.jpg)
The nighthawk sings for us, that bird of corrosion and dust,
but don’t be afraid, autumn’s only an angel that brings the
darkworld of winter blooming white as infamous
asphodels.
wrenching myself over
the backs my ancestors offer me,
all for a chance
to prove that I have nothing
to prove.
They asked for
nothing nor answered
any question
except for the one I
knew there were no words for
You do not have to be
, good or bad, for stolen time
conducts the hours in delicate
arbitration
My skin always looks clearest
after I’ve been laid of
Leaving all the toxins
Behind.
This one, the girl unpinning her hair
do I hold the picture this way or that?