s o m e w h e r e. Where I can pretend
that no man's bones build up a city
and that when tears crawl maggot-like down ashen faces
these journeys are provoked by caustic love
or clean severs from plastic grass.
No, the corroding bleached skull
would never dare to bury itself within
my synthetic earth, beneath the skin
of my s o m e w h e r e. Its weary nooks
in uprooted memories of mine are gone, replaced
by incandescent waterfalls of
pure, pure plastic grass.
Boxes. Boxes with pentagon heads, why yes
they're absent from my robin-egg sky, my
acid-green hills, my s o m e w h e r e.
And nobody, nobody comes to feel cold.
Nobody, nobody suffers in stone like you.