The hair on my skin is standing
and I’m feeling a little twisted,
it’s like I’ve risked this long enough
and the thickest threads thrash then throw us
like we were wanting wasted wishes to warn us
of the fear of a future forgotten by friends.
I’m holding my own hand
in this place that needs a little more,
a little more mourning the meanings of many forgotten things,
where people pick portions from places posing prosperity
and giving grated glass glistening
like rainbows using rain to relay a real reaction.