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When a Child loses a parent
They go crazy for a while,
Retreating back into snow mountains,
There are no vectors here, or souls to
Erase small memories, only a few people
Left in Tarzan rooms, with jungles for eyelids.
If I grow out of woolly-roots, I grow calling
To you, drawing your body into dark banks,
There are languages that thin in measurable parts, to understand
Each vowel, as I call to you across this emptying space
All things spoken here, in crazy speech, are sent with love.