Scribbling with mens' pity,
Spelling with his bowels,
A boy with flowers for fingers--
Airlifted to Heaven,
Heart shaped like a chapbook
Which he keeps in a wood box
Stowed under God's lovely arm.
At night our names are erased,
Only the owls know them--
He is one those who doesn't know
He cannot still the air by closing his eyes
Or make the streets stand motionless.
And the loves he's learned
Lie planted under the blooms.
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