Pretty sure constancy,
lifting up fingers.
Discovering how long
the nails are
when they leave half moon grooves
in the left palm again.
You are an old friend, nausea,
moving backward real slowly
searching with your flat ass
for the horizon of a chair on the horizon.
You are increasingly young
or I old.
The chest is where it all is.
Nostalgia turned
to a fissile beam
of concussive force.
Someone
from a group of kids
in the public housing playground
threw a rock at my head.
Which is fair;
it's been a very hard, short, life.
What the open-toed shoe knew.
What the littler disparity meant
(not much, in the long run).
What the sun-ride disappointed
in the sickly arc that not so much rose
but skirted the horizon all day
and then dipped back below
at night.
