i'm still waiting

it is an abortion, you
know, something that leaves

us clutching at swayback
skin and innards emptied like
a gourd; for the rest of our

lives we will never look at
goslings with their drumbones
sifting sky and

be able to pretend.


it is a derailing, a seismic shift,
a quiet damnation. you know

how some believe people are
most beautiful at twenty-five
and others think eight;

how i believe we were never
really beautiful
at

all.