Walk
To the end
Walk with me to the burial grounds where
things grow up anyway —
where the cars are all dead and the blankets
torn and the speakers play the same song
again and again and again — into
the next day and the one before that
where the clothes are all hidden
below individual blades of grass and the sound
of torment
is another shirt being used as a pillow
where the Peter Pans go floating
and looking for the treasure of another fairy
to add to the pack
where the monsters are really just something
you made up and created with a spark
and a stick
and then let loose onto the pavement
to become a blue dialogue about
wishes
where the sound of the streaming
becomes unintelligible and illegible by virtue of
the sun staring at you
where the panic you put there
in a box
from 1993 has a real loud voice and can’t
be turned down or tuned out
like the words you saw on the news
