somewhere in there
sounds like a kid
searching for another permuta-
tion of himself, some
semblance of a would-be he won’t hate.
that’s me, I’ll never run out of pain.
this genteel ache,
this conclusion, has nothing to do with choice.
there are some who’re born broken,
those unobtrusives with chapped lips, glancing up for
drones that might pick them up
then throw them to another Earth,
those who like getting into strangers’ cars, laying their head on the
dashboard that’s softer than their bed.
they on cold nights like to whisper to God: ‘we
don’t like this experiment.’ we are more
than warning signs of civilization in peril.
dead and gone.
don’t refuse exploitation; that’s how we still feel useful.
don’t the characters in some books make rooves out of leaves? too
dogged to prioritize shelter, though. too
drugged to maintain another thing
doomed to crack and crumble. just never enough time.
days flow by like silk into a sawmill. In the
dark we try to see if we still stand on strong ground, or surface tension.

such is
the rhythm. feet damp with cakemud. in
darkness we see stoplights turn red, sometimes yellow.