Alison C. Rollins - Object Permanence

For the time being

an ampersand is a boy

clutching his knees

to his chest as art.

 

On high, the god of form

wears a face on each wrist.

Only a god can take and give

time, but the one in front of

the gun lasts forever.

 

The boy is parenthesis,

his shoulders curved,

the huddled wings of a bird.

 

The boy’s arms are too short

to box with god. He breaks down-

beats of sweat in his sleep.

 

If life is music, the rest is noise,

this earth a museum of dead boys

walking. The god has a finger to

his...