Brad Bostian

When my father wore a beard he sat often in silence,
Knowing the value of silence, the dangers of the precipice.
He yawned or snapped shut his book, still curious
About the windows, the stars, the great clouds awaiting us
With webs unfolding to catch the drowsiness
Of our imaginations, as if our minds,
Like kites torn loose by gusts
Of wind would in the end
Speak only frustration


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