Some boys are rivers pushing 
pebbles for as far as they can 

brittle boys unafraid to bruise or break 
bourns braided over their fishbone arms

as long as they keep pushing ahead
the pebbles lodged in their mouths

will keep making space for parables 
godly shaped, like Amma, Mum, Ma— 

 					   Make me something acerbic, make me 
 					   delicate with your dirt and damned and 

 					   turn me wholly river, gorgeous gorge.
 					   Help me heave these hillocks off my

 					   suburban street. Pour me then your clear colour.
 					   Pour me then the crystal cadence of your name.