In the beginning, the Word already existed. 
Someone had no choice but to write that slop. 
From year zero it’s been clear: 
the buzzing roars, the buzzing cuts entirely, 
somewhere in the ash a branchy end is felt. 
Because time is easy to measure, and therefore, easy to waste. 
Because a cicada in a poem is as good a sign as any 
to quit reading, sleep it off a few years longer.
I probably shouldn’t be a father, 
or at the very least, speak to my son until he can 
string two words together. Lighten up. Bad day? Get bent.
It should matter that we’ve both been crying in the grass, 
miserable with teeth whose hatching is and was our first act 
of wanting to escape ourselves. It should break my heart 
that it doesn’t. Easy does it. It’s starting
to rain. The weight of all this blood is crushing me.