In the quiet between highway ribs we were made as brothers; between home and home again the quiet made us. There is no one, now, who knows what I can say to fear, fears of calm and quiet that make boys men and fathers. On public radio from private city schools they are talking about art and peace and craft with righteous elocution. But you spoke like songs and sung like land. Here, you kept me honest– brother, you were music. I wonder if you’d hate this.
first published in Six Sentences Vol. 2.
copyright Christopher Cocca
