no notches on the floorboards
just smooth sapling guts with grains
no mind cutting edge technology
through their copper cords
no saving
from
double-dipped matchstick burns
getting over the rock walls
to freedom in a cave

for paper and people
skin, alike and clammy at
the same spaces,
the slow step
down the eyes of the
first stare coming up for night,
the kids still in the streets,
but no
truth can trick
the innocent
and i can't stay to watch
the rest of this

every night it was
a film sheet spinning rolling
the hills curved through
my head to smoke
before i fell asleep,
and forgetting the purpose
of my dreams and knowing there are
thin knees somewhere
running toward my bed
does nothing

except i know
the men saw me cry
at their festivals
and heard about my mother's soul
how it was only a wax-work part
of a useless tramp seed
sunday collection

now the agencies turn
their backs to me bury my past
deep within stagnancy & backwater
where it won't hear me scream
jesus christ i'm fucked