There is a breath
at the end of a sentence
that sets the bell-tones of conversation
before finality
is satiated and set.
But there wasn't a thought
of this or that
when you couldn't
look me in the eyes.
You breathed
in labored tones -
all attempts
at age appropriation
had long drifted away.
A boy
sat before me
dressed in a metallic suit
with grinding brakes
urging to be let go
and oil spilt carelessly
around useless legs.
Everything was frozen
but the wind from your body.
A boy,
with my future
in his fumbling hands
waiting
to be wounded from above.
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