It seems to me my pin-prick eyes see so slow
holding back a flight into the swift swish from tree to tree.
Never seems to me. the morning is now full.
Angel-headed, forgetful father - a vision of the sea in the rent blue
of sky. No, never seems real to me.
Yet seems to me still I am the fascist,
a country less wanderer moving mountains
with a stolen song. Birds roost on my shoulder
and later the skateboarder wind away and it seems
a breath of wind blows the fascist father away and I know
fascist father will find his fascist child
and laugh and hold her tight, and this damned Daddy flies away to me.
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