Our Endless Grandparents

Hell is the wheel.
Ending is real.
Change is the deal.
Represent at the corner of fiftieth street northwest,
Say into the wind the names of all your parents
Throughout time,
Whisper down the backs of your latest grandparents’ wishes
As they ride in the belly of time.

How can a sheep cannibalize his method of waiting out in the rain?
This fixture of fixation is not new to me on this level of vibration.
What can I call the mountainous breeze that
Slips and slurps up to the roof of my mouth
Before any taken has taken the wishes’ refugees
From out of the mouths of tiny angels,
Tongues of flame which are extremely rising,
Risen in the heat of the back planets,
Befuddled into rooms that will never be seen again.

This is the backward shape of history, the lasting refinements of time before
Walls and today’s whales can
Crash through their soupy spines and into
Bottomless milk-cartons on every countertop in America
Displaying the willfulness of disease and disappearing
Which we perpetrate on the faces of our dear ones,
Our endless grandparents
Before they knew.

Where are your children, and
What
Colors
Do
They
Breathe?