I see naked children falling off the end of sidewalks,
that are swept clean by thin mothers. Cycle spokes speak
uneasy language on the road, sometimes my arms open up
to embrace downhill air, stretch to catch crow feet while the
sun beats on the skin like Green Day drums. I am nicely-brown again.
When, near South block, my eyes tear out, prancing through grass
to creep up stranger legs and rest there for some blissful o’clock of time
and I’m breathing again through nothing—no cloth, no surgical fabric, no fear.
Life, they say is a matter between you and yourself
so when I speed through roundabouts at the risk of losing this life,
I boldly whisper, “It’s my life”, my heart becomes horse legs,
racing, racing and racing till it all comes to a stop. Like a period at
end of the most meaningful sentence. You wonder, “what next”.
Home is a test, an ascension of mammoth staircases,
home is a cold comfort floor and a roof above our heads
home is the cradle where we come to mourn the death
of radioactive adventures.
