I
shift wheels to travel unborn. There’s so much pain.
How
to cover it in one session? I ask, a bit unfair, for
death
takes a lifetime. I couldn’t forget, to string for
gray
hairs, gripping a baby’s finger. I’m lost and found,
streaming
through mother, born for a venture. I can’t
tell
it—as it was—a tender war. I’m a vat of secrets,
to
ponder a drink, a tad bit vicious. I speak it—to give
it—to
touch for eyes. I hear it—to live it—to preach
for
whys. Such is flame, a flickering
soul, a scroll
unread.
It’s burst to burst, flung and floored,
headed for
the
storehouse. I remember a drug-shack, a glass-shelter,
and
a season of getting fried; for so much to lose, to
drift
through traffic, watching for a sun-fall. We perish
softly,
featured in magazines, a story of ghetto-lives.
What
would give—a flock of closed windows? It’s
tender
a wound, poked and prodded, a decade of guinea
pigs.
I know not, to experience the same, puffing cigars.
