Here, on the borderlands, we live in paper houses
Sleep on rocks and logs and bathe in the rain.
It is a striking existence.
We are made substantial by our deeds and voices.
Water clouds the world with wet and weather
Brings toads writhing up through the mud,
Cactus into bloom.
Pain brings clarity to our dreams and
Staggers through our days like a drunkard
On a ship in a howling storm.
The tossing straightens its path into our hearts.
We breathe the air of desperation.
In the smoky evenings of fire,
Singed by sparks we rage and stomp
among the glowing coals.
Grunting, we pummel the charred wood
sending the showering cinders skyward.
This cannot last.
These days of abandon
that scream against the black pit of forgetting.
We will not remember when we wake to the street sounds
And the abyssal meandering chatter of loose minded drainpipes
That dawn brings dripping and humming, louder and louder
until brutal wordless chant leaps away.
And we are separated into the day.