The kids bang to the beats,
Skateboard to concrete,
Beer panhandle, land in on two feet.
Their wet ears can’t hear it
Rebound sounds of old poets spoken.
But I recognize that tongue,
My own mouth was once,
i find that this is the only pace:
aging bones and growing wrinkles.
a picture of the world upon a single face,
and time - the difference.
i find that there are many shapes,
and many instruments that create them;
fires for the forging make the dark a lesser place,
never again so oppressive or binding.
sometimes, the people in my memories blur,
as if one could be another could be a third;
and sometimes, my memories aren't memories at all
but ghosts pretending, out of line with reality,
molded from formerly accurate shapes,
replete with embellishments.
i study these fictions as truths,
the two now indiscernible like distant shadows ,
the rate at which they multiply absurd.
And ya see planes are coming down faster
Than I can catch em them.
Places I never knew the names to are smoking,
Smoldering, sweetly and then not
So sweetly , in me.
Leaving me heaving,
For once not weeping
Wishing water please, sweep
These trees into a cool sleep so I can speak