The Ears of the Dead

they move in different rhythms

when they move at all

ossified, oozing

stonefaced turning

blurry rivers

burning

suntanned and bearded

a-muttering concordance

staring high lonesome

in shuffling thrombosis

where distant clouds gather

or pigeons wheel wanting

in starfish-paced wanderings

and sometimes they spin

whose eyes left loving

whose hearts less leaving

with some mother holding

a boy who would be king

and now,

my copper-skinned brother

look not upon me

for I cannot bear it

don’t turn your head

your eyes,

are still baby-blue

please,

your hands,

that held marbles

and leopard frogs

and tops

don’t show me, don’t.

reduced to

mitt-like beaten

bags

don’t make me look

your shriveled witch-feet

poking out from  under that charity blanket

please God

your hair wild like the boy you once was

make it stop

your gray teeth,

bubble gum and lollipops

no, don’t turn your head

your ears, your once soft baby ears

the countless coos and whispers

oozing now the dead green

tide of desperate measures

never look into the ears of the homeless

never