We stood in slanted youth,
Permanently marked by
The dust from our desks,
And it steeped through everything
I wore--a bright infection of the skin.
And my hands linked
In earnest awkwardness
To a partner—our pencils escaped
Their function, and only our names
Hung in the white.
Clouds will cover
This age.
One day, I awoke and
All of you brimmed
With a wet shame.
And tying rusting circuits
Around your frames,
I pressed you far down
Through memory’s
Compliant folds—
Lay you to rest
And rot
And to forget
The dust of those days.
The hours cool on the clock--
You take your hand down
From your eyes
And meet the uncertainty
Head on—
A lovely war between
Shrinking ideas and a
Childish compromise.
The past retracts
Her guilty gaze--
It is soft, gleaming, yawning--
And on the blank pages,
I scribe the deeds of
All our ghosts.
Author notes
after it all, i finally found what i needed to say
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