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WAKING (FOR KAFKA)
It is a mandible language, ours; one of release
or grasp; a byzantine binary of yes, no (yes);
the shellac click of stag beetles all het up.
Dear Franz you should love whom you want to
and hard—forget about the world’s wanton
fathering and mothering . . . both will bear on
past your little momentous death.
Our parents always outlive us in a sense;
at our end we call for them from the darkest night
of our first own bedroom—
even if they do not come
there will be Breakfast. Waking is the bare minimum
or miracle. There’s no telling what you’ll be,
or how you’ll be loved. Release, now grasp.