We pick through the washed up
Junk
Huddle over the silt
Like a prospect of gold
It passes the time
Forces the breath
Any junk is better than home
Cars aren’t here now
We walk
The thin soles of our shoes slipping in the mud
We need to wipe them
The only clean ledges are graves
Funny how death survives death
We do not wipe our feet there
Some laws still apply
The postman wears his uniform
The red faded but still inside
He smiles tries to say hello
We have all forgotten words
He works
Prospecting his own gold
Picks up dead mice
Posts them in the water
Carefully as letters
birthday thank you congratulations sympathy sympathy
We do not remember
I wish for that absorption
Not in silt
In mind
I see too much
Feel everything
And nothing
My skin is purple and swollen under the sun
It hurts
I wish it would break and let the infection in
Force me to the grass in happy delirium
They pulled me back from the grass once
Now if you are pulled you never come back
No one misses what is not there
The light makes me sick
Us sick
The kind of head sick that comes from gasoline and ice cream
burn high cold
I wish it was gone
I wish I was gone
The children draw with stones on the ground
Some laws still apply.
