our nomads walk on in the dark
living on walls following trails along our psychosis
laughing, they do
while we trip on cracks in the sidewalk while they,
up above, scoff and point at us, catcalls bouncing off
pavement to ring in our ears [like
the bells of scolding teachers, we as children rapt with attention, those sharp
insulting shrills of old such as daggers to us]
they wear their coats as if they were stars hanging
overhead, shining blinding as reflections off
the asphalt where we drag our insecurities
and while they hold themselves to such an alarming degree as we,
the grave diggers down down down below, stumble over our mistakes
at least we have the decency to learn from falling in the gravel.