Brett Fletcher Lauer

Even Christian Babies Cry


I am told he is still sort of a boy, a half little
and half adult boy, who touches flowers
then smells his fingers, is still unmarked with
any sign yet continues to walk with the strut
of someone marked with a sign. And no,
he is not intimate with girls or with boys.

He doesn't know everything or anything
or nothing, no matter if he falls in love
later or never, it will not happen the way
he would have planned. Someone once told him
that you cannot build a hole. He has a device
to prove them all wrong, but has not yet tried

to prove them all wrong. He doesn't actually
understand the device just keeps staring at it.
Looking at him I don't really see it or any
semblance to something with powers, even
if it is just the power of a beautiful knickknack
to be an object on a mantle. I can't see it

but someone told me he does and I am guided
by others. I have heard that the house he lives in
is a glass waterfall which he built. Of course it is not
natural for anyone to build anything. I have never
actually witnessed the reflection of sunrise or sunset
in the glass, but he is very pretty as he passes to move

away from the girl he is walking with, in order to
create the illusion of availability, of hills
that no one sees in the distance, but then, planned
or by accident, sure enough, we find ourselves clearly
standing there and staring down into Elixir Valley.


The Circle of Breath That Surrounds You
The feelings of loss, like tiny droplets, do gradually accumulate


© 2003 Electronic Poetry Review