(guilty of writing bad teenage poetry, see below)Sometimes we are children again
chasing after lightening bugs and burning
our thumbs on sparklers.
Other times we are in between age, in
another time and place, we amble
to and through one another, deaf
with distortion, chewing on one another’s
faces sad and hungry.
You exist in dreams, a lost civilization,
to excavate, worn down by seasons and
the failure of a mind.
Faceless and reduced to memorial: a pile of
clothes on a floor, a pair of bloody legs
riding a bicycle down a hill, stinking of winstons
and ham baked in a white kitchen.
I can’t remember your face.
I can’t remember.
I can’t.
Now. Its snowing.
Bodies of lovers
pile atop me like the mass graves
of holocaust, skinny arms and legs everywhere—
I swallow my fillings and close my eyes
Grasping through the flesh and darkness
at something I don't understand.
