weaving dust

put words toward accessing a world
what of? to wail, to write. only to write
fortnightly, fated to die old even if young
surrounding fall in a breath wintering
possible chicago

i know that i can hear someone crying
beyond the wall
rest in the sound, as in supermarkets
the kids crawl from the baskets
sailing around, feral and drunk

heard her rush into the telephone
referring to us, swipe of tears
sweating out, saying to her;
with my own thinking;
"this is not the end, young/old"
this is not the end.

deranged void, owing what is tangled
to the past, oft forgetting what hurts
until it frustrates and repossesses "this" time

this time you are mine, in your crying,
i crowd toward your pathetic yawp
swerving no violence away from
curiosity, i want
to word your crying into
what i can't strike from me