The young boys are learning to share,
but they start with punches and put-downs.
First they have to give away their pain.
The young girls hide their bruises before they arrive.
It makes them old, and they think the future is only
physical. Makeup makes their skin dusty.
No one wants to escape only to find reality there.
What they share is what they don’t have. They give
themselves away to make the dreams real.
Outside the bodies, they can see what the sloppy sacks
of dreams are worth. Inside, they only want out.
Each memory becomes a little balcony.
I can see planes in the sky dragging their white tails.
Their value is in their distance, which I appreciate.
I misunderstood at least one sack of tattered love.
And still the pain remains ambiguous, uncertified. It was in the house
when I visited what was missing. You must think you know
what your self is, if you feel this sorry for it.