New hums in this room, new bones.
Of all the things of which you’ve never once thought, the ways in
which this child could die and this sentence might end can’t now
be said to be among them.
The color of misremembering is that of a field at evening’s edge,
a field where you weren’t born and you don’t live but somehow
Hard by the world and its at-risk trappings, its shit-handed crashes
in what can hardly be called miniature, you once went rolling
around lonelily, a hole in all you weren’t, and even walked on into
the woods and didn’t get leaves all over you.
Most impossibly close and uncontrollably quiet, your skin’s now
shadow, your insides a parliament of largely unseen meat.
You scratch a bug bite.
Its itch is knowledge doing something else’s job.
Copyright © Graham Foust
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.