If they spend their days shifting their gaze through blue screens at bold fantasies—

If days unfold upon them like foamy waves of dusty melancholic ages, eras swathed in musky curtains of red glances—

If avenues and boulevards fan out from their fingertips like the unspooled circulatory system unhinged from hormones—

If the objects of middle distance free float, bob and merge like slowly remembered tokens and toys—

If the squeaks and chirps of children rise behind walls of carton, cardboard and plaster like birds—

If habitual rages and eruptions of men have not cracked and stained their vision like the troughs of laws and roots in uncovered plumbing—

then it’s “another year” (Nati said as I sliced chickens open at the breastbone), it’s Mother’s Day—