My heart, back then,
Now there is nothing to break
but my back,
and I will not give them that.
You expect this shit from me,
the quiet resignation, the aimless supplication.
What was once alphabet soup
is now just soup.
This, my predawn saunter,
a wander between the shapes of the room,
drawn circles and squares of clumsy geography:
the rough red chimney bricks, the melted candle bits.
What was true will probably stay true.
All those strangers
caught between plexiglass picture frames
It is the tedium of long memories;
the space between then and now
must mean something
to someone by now.