there were ladies with cigarettes at fairs when my wrist dusted the sand and came upon that cherry burn what a mark they made on me and don’t forget the trailer where Luke took me holding onto 16 with brown paneled walls I was younger, then older and then my wrist came to that scratch in the kitchen and the knick that scabbed dark what a beauty I’ve become among dishes and poetry I whisper when I’m alone and they’re asleep I’m barely in touch with the feel of surrender to so