little brother

Planning a Summer Without You It doesn’t matter now only that the way I walk makes the side of my feet dry – dry enough to crack – dry enough to almost bleed and in between need creams – need cool sheets need out-of-the-sheets bleeding.   Even before I decided I wasn’t coming my old shoes waited, (they’ve been in tides, canyons) their gaping mouths open as the dead.   They’d waited all winter, craved the old crack jerked seaweed makes when it is crunched under such aimless walks as I’d take every morning looking for God knows what all, solace probably, and not.   More I bet at Lazarus and some talk I make up between he and Jesus, a quiet argument of need and whose then would be the deepest.   Feet with the thinnest skin between the rock and the sand the boat’s wood the kitchen  synagogue latrine you name it all the lift and fall – who is my Lazarus?   Yours?   Who do you try to raise from the dead by walking while the we