A little mountain goat
he is nimble and lithe and impossibly brave
stretching slim limbs with hidden muscle
thoughtlessly over toothsome rock.
A man already;
hides his tears when he’s been hurt
doles out kisses, holds tightly to affection
secret fears harbored in a sea of misconceptions
Instead of me he pours his passion into a million pages
his life’s questions play, fight, maim, and die there
some of his demons, and mine
have been defeated
though there are a few left —
just for spice.
Somehow, though,
in the small sweaty palm of his hand
I can now rest.
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