From All Children To All Parents
A man who is climbing uphill to
reach the unbroken view with
his hands pumping his knees or
holding his sides while
doubled over like a fistful of fat but
aching as if his bones had been working through and
trailing behind his own efforts like a drowning man's clothing so that
only the sweat still feels like moving and making
his hair put salt in those wounds called eyes/
can still see his feet, despite
his blood at that altitude so easily boiling to his ears/
can still hear his feet, despite his head rolling every direction but higher/
can still know the feet are his, and despite
their slipping still can still keep going, dry tongue dividing
groans into notes in spite of a mouth like dust.
However slowly, a man whose feet go uphill, still
is moving upward.
Please, you must!
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