They let him go
when he was particle-composed and had died of
drifting through outer space
they let him go,
the people’s race of peoples didn’t own him,
floating past nationalism and liberty
as cancer an infinity emulsified
the mortal equation,
the surmountable forms of gray ways,
child without childhood
you picked at these fingers,
the seven wrinkles, your chance to perceive things
but accelerating away,
faster than cycles of sun or moon,
with the forms and “words” of humanness,
standing as a sun-drenched field before a 7-11®,
a parent kisses their child at college,
the smell of wet tallgrass.
They got to go to college,
wave wave . . . wave wave
the forty classes
wave, for the presence of Einstein.
The ports and portals are much different.