Dangling my feet,
on the edge of leaving…
Please tell me
what is left to believe in.
I sometimes feel amputated
from my home.
Banging my head on the
knowledge of things
I should have always known.
I sometimes feel very alone,
even when we are so close.
We could be made of the same living bone.
Everything is ambiguous, a profane mystery.
Recounting events that seem so long ago,
tracing mistakes on maps, engraving words into history.
Under all this filth, how could we ever grow?
How could we ever know -
That this would be our reality,
our angry, acute actuality.