Break your arm again,
mould it a new cast,
sleep, rest, dig up your past.
And  this all comes from down near my heart, to the left,
where you’ve pitched camp in the forever sun of the forever nest.
Birds don’t perch there like they used to,
instead they flew south in
belly pains and stomach cramps,
another reason to sleep under lamps.
See the bowl, throw up in the bowl,
rub your nose with child like hands,
that swept hills from above moles-
back when playing in sand was accepted and fun.

When we wake from such anguished
pasts
memories waver and do not last,
nor do they retain any hopeful longing,
as they disappear out into the morning.
You are gone and you are forgotten,
but the rings in the candles tell me we share the common.