Document 5

Write with cactus quill—
I grip a plum of clay
to pig shape pull
me through cars with limbs smashed
though fathers
in there
time makes bones
grow, I wish a clover
fruiting of four-leaf mouths
a fortune of weather
foretold and defrocked smacking
back a car pulled loose
a kid pulled free
a dad threads a blood red wing
and casts words back
there to make a tune
it is okay to write in turn to dead selves they
den us in loam fragrant with movement