the half drawn eyelid son grew weary
under his lamp.
slumping next to the shade that drew
his voice to a sigh.
slight the long shadow and grieve a mother.
the less saught after second born
son of abraham.
slaughterhouse drunk son of a b
dont turn to fast now or you might spin him.
slow the hours of the day.
slower still now the second glance.
the frail hand on the wall permits a
little stillness if only for a moment.