where all the blood and wealth of my youth
is lain to rest;
beneath the sky of possibility that no one sees,
In between cars and cold
on the construction site- grey highway,
that makes me gasp in panic
for my own coming days.
Where the kids are all buried alive I love you.
Do they panic for their children--
the ones they are having only
16 years into their own existence,
stopped short in the realm
of whatever, not quite alive
enough to feel the weight of their fleeting numbered days,
and minutes away from nothing.
I love with all the health and truth
of my outstretched
arms, seeking humble lines
of wise and hurried words
to mumble at the stars
and those whose ears cannot contain;
for the only truth of our existence
brings new the heavy hand,
lifted.
