I punched through the glass of my own door.
Not being let in -
I guess it was a sign;
the ones that slipped through, failed anyway

relations held back,
resurfaced combinations,
forever at a distance.
The steps are no longer symbols on the floor.

two, ten-year life spans
split just below the sunrise
in an abrupt sculpting
of someone else's vanity

I see and can taste,
but only as a voyeur.
Memories seem as dreams of the real
as false as the breeze

Distracted, I’m everywhere.
The freak out lampshade night,
sound as lies:
“did the truth slip through young lips?”

“I” as an explanation
holds the water to go away.
Soapy red lips at five,
unreadable remembrances

The fences weren’t up yet
and why through the backyards?
The deleted presence of no one.
Where does walking come from?