in progress, still

ok, so still working on that same damn piece, all these months later.

here's another section, in case you're keeping score.


bobby's little brother washes his hands.

he doesn't know how to spell aqueduct,
once guessed rasputin was a mixed drink,
dreams his home is a tinderbox and the rest
of the world is playing with matches.

he’s never known a time when people
gathered in barns, laughter like a roll of thunder
following the lightning of their songs,
spilled from lips dry as the fields, the ashes of their lives
mixed in a bowl of cereal, soaking through the soil of their skin.

his hands are dirty, so he washes them.

he knows what pressure sounds like, but not how it feels,
simply reaches out, and the thirsty mouths
of the rivers of the world open before him.