He remembers a
curvature too straight to exist, surreal
but a childhood in the bloodstream.
Listen to what must he say, listen to
what he cannot say.
With three steps, lock a reason with
the old scotch like his ink beneath
the table.
Screams followed the
futility that loved to linger by the
lines; screams sank in the lines too.

Out there in the cold, you and I,
A sacrifice and a song.