When Through My Nostrils Water Displaces Breath
In Los Angeles in winter it pours rain on boy urchins, striations of fiber decompose, my body anchored by a mesh of words. The Sunday Times in my mouth doesn't make me newsworthy. All these boys and only island societies, none of us to repopulate the earth. I said it would end with me, bathed in chaos, on a payphone. When my mother left I told her in high heels she would get caught in splitting concrete. I'm sure she is still in her shoe. I see a friend from another time and start to tell a story about my life but it all feels like conjecture. I ask him how he would craft a boat, out of siding? and pay for my toast. Fraternity is as close as we could come to paradise. The downpour is continuous but its warmth is an amend for the smell of burning leaves and the glow in our mouths as we laughed.
