I’m raising my child to become the end of rotting,
and to expose the lushness of the cemetery moth.
I’m raising my child to know the difference between the two sunsets:

To pimp the fine young cadence
of the dying gasp’s demented urge
to sentence

As we sat in Central Park
you turned my head to see
what I’d already heard.

Mind you, or mind the mind—
Did it occur to you—that it did so many things at once?
Its battle lies mostly in convincing us to feel good

The softened sound of lighter traffic
beaches on attention
in the now and then     just barely
a wave pattern,

I might benefit from supplemental testosterone.
My arm is missing a wedge.