Inheritance

It matters, it forms a trail
whether born old, born lonesome,
these young habits of fact
they watch on all your soul,
with the eager urge to mock
in a three-year-old, 
well, the heart wants to be taught,
the brain wants to be told,
and like magic they knot
folded in you as a foal.
With an innocent kind of malign,
you are ever reminded of the goad,
of deepest rumination, a symbol, a gold set of inescapable numbers,
buried in the land mine of body

throat of a genus

in early baths
turned autumn 
the genus rose
as flesh flower bulbs

they dropped in a fall 
and a scar was torn
for centuries it burned 
on a hot brown back

they want to be told:
all the foe made fawn
their kingdom come

all the while
kill color in his palm