in recognition of a life

i have
colors
threads
in the tapestry
that weave themselves
i sit
beside this one
made of
bone and sinew
synthetic hair
added to his
curls
in longness
not dreaded
yet
but
heading
there
the stories
of his hair
a jack
of spades
underneath his chair
he is
my prince
a boy
belonging
only
to this
moment
of grass weave
and chair
we share
the table
of this
dream
as if
there were no more
spinning
but
in, around and through
there are
there are

i manage
a hundred storylines
here at this table
i continue
continuing
on and on
this moment
tells itself
he
and me
with him
in the other room
and she
asleep
and the other
working
at the
store
of dollars
for dollars
too few
to
move

a single ant walks its path found in the wood grain
of fallen remnants
dead brothers
hover in spotted bits
of not yet buried
hair
hers
comingle
with the
not yet
swept away