Thursday, August 9, 2012

Support is a Handrail above the Head of a Toddler

Not with this self pasted like Civil War newspapers
To these sniffling bones too tired to crack or sore
Have I kissed one comfort
To anyone (but especially this one)
Incapable of looking at a goddamn elbow
And not feeling that futurity
Holds our eyedust in what must be
That non-elasticity and inability to bend—
   which is all that water and we,
           in eyeglasses and cups,
have ever smashed fisticuffs against.
Nor as bodies might be handrails
Is there support for just touch
    While running hands are
                                           slipping feet.

There must be some rightplaned curvature
To fit what we grip,
                                 and rails
like hope, its sisterbrother despair,
must not be so wide and spill out our hands.

At night
            below the trainwhistle
I can hear our graves stifle
           a unanimous yawn;

we spilled our grain among the headstones.

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