48: Chosen Separate

Aren't we good.

We adopted a small child

from a torn place

he fell through and we

adopted the tear

in him. He was cleft

and

disregarded for

the requirements of toothsome smiles. We made

a choice

for his head to lie down

softly. But it rises from this album

in a weight above air; you can feel

a push around the picture flash;

where his face falls into permanent smile, absent vanity

it is glory, and

seen or not, peels existence. He came for us.

Where we were

prisoned -

we saved no one but ourselves. This picture is

an escaping mist, beyond

the bars, off

the edges, omniscient; in my hands,

his face speaks

the beauty

of cracks, canyons big

and small. His pithy smile; my

perfect break