It’s spnapo and wetsammy 's birthday, so how about some wet Sam?
Your brother is a spoil of war
lost at the end of a ghost road
and the origin of another
where spies have died for less
and worse, than a ten-mile stretch of hell
or California. Look at him.
He was gone.
He was a ghost once, four long beats
of breakneck grief.
When you break in you wonder
will it rain, will it pour will it burst
or will you. That's your heart.
Your brother is covered in mud,
laughs like a thing you don't believe in
but your mother did; your brother is wet
with the wash of the river, hot
with the tears of the saved, clean
as the water that never stopped
what you carried him out of. Look at him.