To the shelter broken further, When the world split you in half you kept right on growing. I was concussed By your showy rustle at the wind's whistle, your unhampered absorption of sun. A nine-year-old streaks over chunked pavement, chainsaw in his sprouting hands. What will become of your bundle of raccoons? Of your buried entrails lurking? You are welcome to visit any time you like. I will glue you back together. But They are hauling you off to the pile of fire, in trailers. Right now. Under next moon's moon, your curious ring-eyed daughter: sleeping tearful in road's shoulder.