A Poem by Michael Stone
When We’re Tired
When I hang up my coat I don’t want to die.
Flowers shed rain, even halos of petals.
The van groans through the dark west,
red rocks through glass.
My brother laughs taking us home,
ash of our faces bleached in sunlight
blank on hills,
my brother an eagle tumbling blonde-blue
feathers wrinkling,
our bones rattling down to the edge of the sky
into the lips of humans born to be us
after a long flight.
A tent unfolded passes over the mountains.
When I hang up my coat I don’t want to be reborn.
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