These are alleyways between.
These are bricked-up forgotten children.
These, the ones from all the way beneath.
These pushing-pulling swagging phone lines.
These connected, dragging loops between.
These bricked forgotten children in
These unstained knees of these jeans.
These Jesus and Mary candles.
The swooping flags in the windows, drooping like running wet paint that runs too late…
Where were words when I sat green
unboiled, unseen, tough in the way saplings are,
tender in the way old men are
once they’ve come to their white bedsheets
once they’ve come to nod and blink from
behind unsheathed teeth
I wonder where words were then
in between, in the days…
