Two-in-Four

you were born

from

destitute sigh

forged battle treaties

of resignation

death upon death

you are the hope

of a bouquet

repeated annually

by our graves

a signature in the making

the world already had ended

that is the terrible that had

already happened

you were born after

the world ended

and your home

makes pretense

to the equilibrium

of two in four

we bestow ourselves

huddled houses

as we breathe near our 

liquid crystal display

screens

clothed in the radium

of bare-Baird aurora

if you dream in black and white

you live in colour

for home monochrome of

nycthemeron

is the librum of skin

that is the shining shin-sign

of life recaptured on waking 

everyday

the little poems i plead

as requiem for childless

seed, this poiseme

and the words return

in bird huddle

another twist of the two in four

makes the welcome

enter and exit by the side gate