Nobody grows up or grows old
They wake up on a sodden mattress deep in the July night from a dream they swore they've had before
They climb through a double-sided mirror to their mother's rom
They fall out through a storm drain after thirty minutes' rest
It comes out to a grocery store where the shopping carts have faces
They draw with their red fingertips on the frosted windows
They look down to see blood in the toothpaste washing down the sink
I would give myself to the Earth if it meant to see a fervent change in the parts of me that are unwilling to leave.
excerpt from dinner after 9, march 2024
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