after I'm gone,
a beautiful day—the
sun and wind and clouds,
the boundless light;
a kid
in a field of
overgrown grass,
face knotted up
in fervent delight,
holding tight to the
string of a kite.
But it's no use;
the harder I try, the worse
it gets. The kite
is not really a kite.
The kite is a bird.
And this kid
is not delighted;
his face is contorted
into a grimace,
as if he's being forced
in the absurd eye
of an untamable storm
to keep holding on
to my burden.
