days of anger, the toss

green everywhere, green under finger
tips of at least fifteen percent
age is overrated, a belly
full of age. Every day I miss the way your heart
attacks my grandfathers, lungs filling

there are so many days
he hasn’t yet told
me about, there is my biological grand
pris, grand finale, wait I want to hear
I want to hear what mumbled under an accent
my grandfather, and you, my love
imagined. like the rhythm a metra, a palin an unknown
drone paved across the unmanned skies
what you have to

if it weren’t so hard to love you, I still

wait I want you to hear my forg-
etting. dear grand I remember each
story told about you. No, I re
harbor the seconds, each a stor
age, it’s, I mean, an age
I don’t want you
let me start again,

I will always remember you as I never saw you
amid machinery, you are still

anger, my faith, never let it mean I haven’t
understood everything or will
soon, I’m sure