There were Storms
when the Small Silences
between Lightning & Thunder
could not contain the Loud-Large Noise
between our Ears.

We stored the Leftovers,
bottling Armadas of
Scrawled Ink-Thoughts &
sailing them to
Imaginary Audiences.

We shut the Shades,
sending Serrated
Drowning-Dreams
seizing upon our own
Toothy Terrors.

We stood—
Short beneath Blue Sky, but
Tall under Tables &
inside Kitchen Cabinets—
Hopefully Hidden.

We searched
Windswept Sand-Scapes for Shells
that let us listen to our Secret Living,
Conches that captured Poseidon’s Roar
in our Peasant Blood.

We sought—
perched on Backseats, peering at Billboard
Sermons wearing Moth-Ridden Electric Halos,
staring at Shining Stars & Savage Sunsets—
Wonder we would never call “God.”

We are Yesterday’s Youth:
flashing Disney Smiles for
Disposable Cameras,
exposing Retinas retaining Horror-Histories &
Lobster-Shell Backs bearing Bruises.

There are Deaths
in our Birthplace, America’s new favorite
Place to finish old. Death’s Scented Breeze-Breath
smells like Sea-Sweetened Formaldehyde,
drawn past Chlorine-Chapped Lips.
Ends do not pause our Playing.