The Lost Wax Method
I know about your fall,
the time in the hospital.
I know about 1983.
When the sun stuck its hooks
into the backs of your hands.
When every gesture pushed
through a rubble of dead
birds and someone else's bricks.
This is too hard to read, so let's put
it inside our mouths and suck. After
all this 7-11 cake, and still we're hungry.
I want to buy you something,
after all you lost for me. A washing
machine, a can opener, a kitten with six legs.
I'll find you the pill to let you sleep,
I'll find you the silence we paid for.