An essential sense of place
But a waning sense of self.

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An essential sense of place
But a waning sense of self.

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Broken knuckles are romantic
like cellphones thrown against the wall.
And shattered means he cares so much
there was Passion in The Fall.
On August nights, I rememberÂ
all the parents in plastic lawn chairs.Â
How bottles crackled in the embers
of a dying summer lawn fire.
You’ll believe those lawn chair parents
they swear he loves you: hates you, calls you cute.
You’ll kiss his broken knuckles
you’ll toss away bruised fruit.
When I was a child
I spake as a child
I understood
Little
I thought
As a child
I wanted to be loved.
To be cradled after
And caught up in the
Light flickering
Fluorescence.
In essence, I wanted
what everyone wants.
Time.
In time I grew
I knew then that
time was best spent Elsewheres
Those great wide places
That were not for me.
I knew
Little of Elsewhere.
But I knew that time
flickering like fire
Was
unsustaining.
Would
empty me.
Weave
mistrust
Leave
mistresses
And crying babies who,
Understanding little,
Seek time.