and our neighborhoods, our paths, our eager hands were glass
we couldn’t or didn’t bother to break. The jagged hold of being
brought-through, unbelonging. Talking to—touching you, we were
made of contradiction. We held the rock salt-eaten pieces, each self
evidence of loss and end. The money we had triggered us
to spend ourselves on lust and fear and trust. Cut wheels, each
choice, precarious above potholes and off-white ice; we braced
for the next fragile season and chance to lie
to ourselves, to whom we loved, too
afraid to not speed up—
we wanted clearer lessons. I am what was taken from me
and I am what was given back
in loose language, loose dollars, loose
comfort—the burn fresh in all of us. I reach out despite
inertia: too struck to tell you I need the rush of touch and take
what’s in your pockets for a love just the same.
