Michael Milligan ______________________________ Honestly I Hardly Think of Him at All What I thought might come of this I can’t recall. I rarely dreamt of safety and never forgot how the wax melts when I fly too high, the sky there uncluttered by restraint. I am torched. I am metal I melt I am molten. How blue my father’s eyes burned, like a welder’s acetylene flame, the 6,000° surface of the sun. I wished him to sleep on blue glass the color of his eyes and wake suddenly afire. None of that matters yet still l fall through the atmosphere. Still come down here. Every time.
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