To clarity of purpose. To hell
with subtlety. To the way each helix
gleams under sun, grows meaner come dusk
like certain trees. To the squirrel carcass

knotted at Con Ed and the sparrow’s nest
perched over Rikers—rustic sweetness
between ragged teeth. To miles of it inked
into juiced muscles, tight biceps snaked

with stars. To stars which are the barbed wire
of outer space—so distant and fiery
they’re downright uninviting. And to that star—
six-pointed, stitched—above my grandpa’s heart,

and the coils that would hold him
like a child missing home.