On My Two-Year-Old Brother Gone Missing

Not his ride-on pony,
but its print on the grass.

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Galloping white space gathering its fields.
Nicker whisper. Thunder burn.

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Once at Angelo’s grocery,
I reached for a small boy.

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We thought, perhaps Rhode Island.
Or a border town nearby.

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The stars on his face
haven’t mapped his way back.

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Turn off the afternoon.
Then, the sky.