Reggae ears hidden in ragged hair remembered
the words of rancid hate. It is the greatest blessing
water failed to carry him through the bars, even
when fluidity no longer was a superfluity. Rusting
razors and molten rubber promised revenge, and sun-soaked
hands concurred, but the metal bars were hollow, and so were
the words.

But he was never hollow: his core made of
geometric intent and unwavering corners, and
I believe that incarnations serve to heal.
Ninety-five times he circled
the sun; twenty-seven of them spent staring at
the sky tessellated in blue squares broken up
by metallic aftertastes, but seventy-six spent
knowing them as friends, until finally they conflated together
in an indelible dalliance never before seen
upon triangular ground.

Ninety-five suns were illuminated by the
wisdom that shone from within him, but
none will forget the unfading light.