Memory’s Machine
the two of them could be silent as a blackboard/ i no longer know what it means to simply be/ their history is one of burning bones and whipped and a cigarette of fiery scars you cannot see/ who could do that to a child stop asking me that question because I have no idea no idea at all/ they scratch their names in the morning frost that covers their bedroom window/ they sleep badly, have terrifying dreams, and weep openly in flashbacks at the death of friends/ and there is the running that they do as if time itself was draining its existence of the fierce, the wild, and the buried blind uncertainty that a thousand boys times ten had other hidden second selves, not too dissimilar from the ones they chase when they think they know everything there is to know about the deeper sea and where it goes and goes/