there was a mirror
that reflects every happy day of my childhood
when the golden way
lays its head to sleep on our backs
made silhouette
does nothing for the air
clean
cotton
we were happy black things
cut up
under the skeleton tree line
pine away
cold danger
rank mouth

wasn’t it better then?
did then even happen?

with thinner versions of
white ribs
black knots of hair
that summer hold
stick to seats to convince
with song
I thought that I didn’t want to
forget these lines
but to hold on
is slavery
and the loss will return me to fluid
to movement
it’s all the same
holding tea cups like lanterns
a tiny furnace
with tiny forsaking
a tiny freedom
I let it go