Little Emperor, let’s go back
to beginning. Tiny distances
between towns, blue cargo
trains that carry. So much
improbable drapery. Cross-
hatched paths plotting time,
bone structures of past. Boys
link arms and skip without
question. Flowers grow
their own volition. Nobody
plucks them. Nothing is
written or will be.

II. The Future is Silver-Studded  

Little Emperor, you’re just in time.

Daddy raised us to refract
slick light, pocket tulips
from any white-spouted

gutter. No rain: our handiwork

makes a street slick
with want. We walk
under archways, tight

-denim. We shimmy toward barb

and bustle…then back
home again, flapping
with the boys (it’s always

a simple goodbye) before cherrying

around the piano and riffing
with the warblers. Waiting
for studs to blossom. 

III. Evidence from the Earth-Bound Arena

Little Emperor, we’ve learned to live without
other men. We’ve found what we need

beneath stadium-blue light. Unmodern
days in which we root. Daddy razed fields with bare

hands, Daddy swung for fences. Our hands
dandelioned and reckless—too curious

            for comfort. Yellow cranes sift and cradle          
wet soil, deposit it elsewhere. A slick-white

sheet covers the past. Night is coming. The ice          
sprouts eyes that swirl in a sugar-coated tumbler.

Such a wealth of information beneath us. Time
spreads out like a pasture we settle down inside. 

IV. View from Both Sides Now

Little Emperor, let this be our last
reckless abandon. We are the blue
starmen of our time. Slits of interior
light splinter out from the storehouse.
Rusted crates cradle smoke the shape
of hands. Likewise, we hold nothing
in our grasp. Reaching but not
ready to repent. Galactic wandering,
no toward or away. The blue
root of night refusing arrival.  

__

The term 'Little Emperor' comes from the name used for baby emperor penguins—who have particularly unique child bearing and rearing rituals. These letters are in conversation with the child I was before the world intervened in my upbringing. When I’m distraught by the state of things I try to write toward that place, or write that place back into existence, though it’s never pure.