1. Four days (weakling).

2. With a red-painted face (ochre runs
down my neck - people tell me that
I'm bleeding), I try
to beat the whistle before
it is blown (run, faster, faster). They read the
writing on my cheek out aloud. They point
to the ink
so I may wipe it off (I seem
unable without a mirror).
3. They try to bite my shoulders
(apparently I don't taste like red. Betrayer.
They deplore my lies).

It's my pathetic search for home that
stops me from sleeping through the
clouded mornings.
4. All I know for sure is that this is